‘I don’t know that I dare. 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. He would pursue that little pastime on some other occasion. Old farmhouses loomed as they whizzed by, left behind in the gray like mourners. Gosse cursed him finely, of course, but there was nothing he could do. “Was it terrible for you after he died?” “Don’t worry yourself about it John.
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