" "Sir Rowland is my brother," resumed Lady Trafford coldly. Both Spurlock and McClintock stood by their chairs until she was gone. I shall not part with you again. Only a book detective could dope this out. She will sail, at early dawn to-morrow, for Rotterdam. Altogether different. Your history, your actions, nay, your very thoughts are better known to me than to your spiritual adviser. ” They were lingering over their dessert. "And now," she added, with somewhat more composure, "leave me, dear friends, I entreat, for a few minutes to collect my scattered thoughts—to prepare myself for what I have to go through—to pray for my son. She felt like a dried-up old woman.
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