“My dear girl,” he said, in a tone of patient reasonableness, “you are a mere child. There’s nothing happened at all!” She didn’t mean, he concluded, to give him any more trouble ever, and he was free to begin a fresh chromatic novel—he had just finished the Blue Lagoon, which he thought very beautiful and tender and absolutely irrelevant to Morningside Park—or work in peace at his microtome without bothering about her in the least. We are alone, Sir Rowland," he added, snuffing the candles, glancing cautiously around, and lowering his tone, "and what you confide to me shall never transpire,—at least to your disadvantage. "Oh lord! I hope not. Now that she was his, to make or mar, she presented an extraordinary fascination. She glanced towards her sister, and curiously enough found in her face some faint reflection of her own rather sombre mirth. But she doesn’t and won’t divorce me. There were a few loose, broken fragments of rock to reckon with upon the ledges, and one place where hands did as much work as toes.
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