"Well, Sir?" gasped Sir Rowland. She became aware that at regular intervals a light flashed upon her face and a bodiless eye regarded her, and this, as the night wore on, became a torment. He seemed to her indistinguishably about her father’s age. "It's not an offer," continued he, "that I'm likely to make, or you're likely to receive every day in the year. The very carts and vans and cabs that Wellington Street poured out incessantly upon the bridge seemed ripe and good in her eyes.
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