Jack Kimble stiffened, looking at his interrogator with wary anger in his face. “I hope nothing is wrong. “Perhaps. 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. And if one were to love some one very much, it’s just so that one would be blindest, just when one wanted most to see.
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