Well, I'd no idea," she continued, pursuing her ruminations as she left the room, "that people of quality laughed so. 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. Her husband sat in a chair beside her bed, his head in his hands. This laughter released something that had been striving for expression—her own natural buoyancy. Here I am as an alternative either to nasty work—or going home. His face fell.
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