It was her past now, not Annabel’s. " "Sir Rowland is my brother," resumed Lady Trafford coldly. “I wish you would not do it. Many little things had contributed to that decision. 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 can’t do that sort of thing unless you do it over religion, and there’s no religion in me—of that sort—worth a rap. They said no more for a moment, and each was now acutely aware of the other. He never felt any need to explain himself.
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