"It is her child!" shrieked Rowland, in a voice heard above the howling of the tempest, "risen from this roaring abyss to torment me. ‘Ah, there is the little menace itself,’ he drawled, recovering some of his own sangfroid. Passing thought. "Aw, piffle!" he said, half aloud and rather disgustedly, as he stepped out into the sunshine.
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