"Your servant, Sir Rowland," said the stranger, ducking his head, as he advanced. A delicate flush of colour streamed into her cheeks. She had no idea what she should do. “The plain common-sense of the case,” he said, “is that we can’t possibly be lovers in the ordinary sense. If you desire to please me, you will go. But all this business has driven it clean out of my head. But it was her proof. What a pig she was. " "Nay, if you're bent upon this folly," observed Wild, who appeared to have his own reasons for humouring the lad, "I shan't hinder you. But I've stacks of books and a grand piano-player. The chromatic fiction with which he relieved his mind glanced but slightly at this aspect of life, and never with any quality of guidance.
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