Old farmhouses loomed as they whizzed by, left behind in the gray like mourners. CHAPTER XXX. It was Ramage, the occupant of the big house at the end of the Avenue. If a cart were coming, or those labourers in the field had heard, escape was impossible. She ran down alleyways and between buildings, faster than an Olympian, until she could hear his voice no more. 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.
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