You never can go back. She floundered deep. Too late now. And there was no intimation whatever that the blinds would ever go up or the windows or doors be opened, or the chandeliers, that seemed to promise such a blaze of fire, unveiled and furnished and lit. He knew she had been weeping. She had lost her sense of direction, and was among unfamiliar streets. She frowned, appearing to think for a moment. A sea voyage under sail will be the making of him. The Northern Ocean keeps a secret better than the Thames, Sir Rowland.
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