"It is her child!" shrieked Rowland, in a voice heard above the howling of the tempest, "risen from this roaring abyss to torment me. No wonder that Trenchard, as he gazed at this fearful being, should have some misgivings cross him. “I have had a trying evening and I need rest. She had seen her really only at teas, with the Stanley strain in her uppermost.
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