’ ‘Was it?’ Her lips twitched. An inarticulate instinct which now found expression. ‘Gérard will think that I have gone back to London. And a ballot-box—” Her face assumed an expression of intellectual conflict. Though encumbered by his irons, his step was firm, and his demeanour dignified. 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.
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