Beauty doesn’t mean, never has meant, anything—anything at all but you. 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. She clasped her hands over her mouth in a silent scream. That is my real milieu, and one that I am convinced you would not only adorn but delight in.
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