Selfishness. A post-chaise seen in the road first alarmed us. 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. America, the land of rosy apples and snowstorms, beckoned, and she wanted to fly thitherward.
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