. . A solemn consideration, when I enter a great city at night, that every one of those darkly clustered houses encloses its own secret; that every room in every one of them encloses its own secret; that every beating heart in the hundreds of thousands of breasts there, is, in some of its imaginings, a secret to the heart nearest it!' … It kind of terrifies me," said Ruth, looking up, first at the face of her husband, then at McClintock's. No, never mind about thanking me. She is your sister, and God knows I wish her none. " "And so Sir Rowland murdered his friend," remarked Wood. It was the blouse that gave Lucy away.
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