‘I live in Kent. At this moment, a door was opened below; lights gleamed on the walls; and the figures of Rowland and Sir Cecil were distinguished at the foot of the stairs. . . A fire enveloped her, a fire which was strangely healing, filling her heart with warmth, blotting out the menace of the world. There's the paragraph. “Neither Sydney nor I would think of such a thing. However, confession of a fault makes half amends for it. But was that enough? Dim, formless suspicions of something more vital wandered about his mind.
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