"Release him first—and I will disclose it!" cried Lady Trafford; "on my soul, I will!" "Speak then!" returned Rowland. He shut his eyes and groped for the wall to steady himself, wondering if this bit of mummery would get over. Spit of your mother. His ideas about girls and women were of a sentimental and modest quality; they were creatures, he thought, either too bad for a modern vocabulary, and then frequently most undesirably desirable, or too pure and good for life. The fact itself is regrettable enough—regrettable, I fear, is quite an inadequate word.
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