I even offered him back the half interest he had sold to me. He touched her hand, soft and cool to his fingers—she turned at once to look at him. She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town. 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. I know that in my heart I would take whatever he gave. .
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