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It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. “I think,” he said, “that I am right. “I—I didn’t love the man I was engaged to,” she said. 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.
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