Of course, he had no idea who I was. Loneliness—something that was almost physical: as if the vitality had been taken out of the air she breathed. She glanced towards her sister, and curiously enough found in her face some faint reflection of her own rather sombre mirth. I was happy to oblige them, I had grown sick of the heat of the south and all the miserable sun. "Rowland, your violence is killing me," she returned, in a plaintive tone. The next minute, I contrived, without either of 'em perceiving me, to convey it into my own pocket. “You are an impostor. ” “That is provokingly indefinite,” he answered, a little ruefully.
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