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. A wave of pity went over him—pity for the patient, the girl, and his friend. Her father intercepted her, and for a moment she and he struggled with their hands upon the latch. If they entered a shop, he paused by the doorway, as if waiting for the journey to be resumed.
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