He hung precariously on the ragged edge, but he hung there. Their chit-chat stopped when they reached the bench. It was time to disappear, no more Becks, no more Spaghetti Nights, no more afternoon kisses in the park with John Diedermayer. Those lives removed,—and Sir Rowland is completely in his power, the estates would be yours—HIS! if he were your husband. But I shall lose my wager if I stay a moment longer—so here goes.
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