It was a queer little bed-sitting-room almost in the roof, with a partition right across it. 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 was conscious of a ceaseless undercurrent of sound—the guttural Chinese tongue. Melusine felt the calloused hand grasp around hers.
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