" Sir Rowland, meantime, throw himself on his knees beside his sister, and, clasping her chilly fingers within his own, besought her forgiveness in the most passionate terms. “Because I hate you!” She spat. He wanted to put on his overcoat and come after you and look for you—in London. “I’d rather go as a chorus-girl,” she said. It was the grand nursery of vice. It is no fault of your own that you are not at this moment standing there with your head blown off. Winifred screamed.
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