The more her thoughts dwelt upon the subject, the more convinced she was that she could not go to any one for help; she would have to solve the riddle by her own efforts, by some future experience. . The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally. She’d have thrown this thing if you hadn’t stopped her. "Hear me, Sir Rowland!" he cried. The touch of his lips neither thrilled nor alarmed her, because the eyes that looked into hers were clean. My only love is for my poor lost son.
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