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. . “What if you get pregnant?” His worry came to a quick fruition. A ragged gray moustache drooped from the corners of his mouth and a ragged wisp of whisker hung from his chin. The beautiful city that she had been awed by and even grown to love had been abandoned.
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