" And, with a few magical touches, he stamped the fleeting expression on the canvass. ’ ‘Back?’ Melusine put a hand to her aching temple. 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. His name is John.
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