“And, you know, you’re altering us all. The vault, in which Sir Rowland found himself, resembled in some measure the cabin of a ship. Superstition—you knock into it whichever way you turn. Was the situation so desperate that he could not pack his best things? She had packed lightly, not wanting to weigh down the carriage they would travel in. If it was not an actual personal lover, it still might be the lover not yet incarnate, not yet perhaps suspected.
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