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 have loved you,” he was saying, “ever since you sat on that gate and talked. I'm used to insult as I am to misfortune, and am grown callous to both; but I'm not used to compassion, and know not how to take it. The ragged edge. Come up stairs, and take a glass of brandy.
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