" Sir Rowland caught at a chair for support, and passed his hand across his brow, on which the damp had gathered thickly. I thought I’d see Paris, do the thing—like a toff. Who is the other?” “What other?” Her voice seemed to come from a long way off. Or was that perhaps because his business in Piccadilly the other day had gone awry? Perhaps Brewis Charvill had not welcomed him with open arms. She is no longer mine; she is yours.
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