“Forty guineas a week. F. Rowland felt himself sinking beneath the powerful grasp of his enemy. You have to see her to understand. There was enough contra-light to render her ethereal. " CHAPTER XIII. She produced a handkerchief, and with one sweep of this and a simultaneous gulp had abolished her fit of weeping. There was the cottage she had inhabited for so many years,—in those fields she had rambled,—at that church she had prayed.
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