The joy of being loved thrilled her as nothing before had ever done, a curious abstract joy which had nothing in it at that moment of regret or even pity. ‘Here we go again. ‘We’ll cross that bridge if and when we come to 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 had nothing to say for herself. "'Sblood! what's this!" cried Jonathan, in the utmost surprise.
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