What of it?” There was a shout of laughter. ‘Do not be imbecile. 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. ” “You are jealous,” she declared contemptuously. “And we will sail that splendor wide, From day to day together, From isle to isle of happiness Through year’s of God’s own weather. "Go to lunch," he ordered Ruth.
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