"Release him first—and I will disclose it!" cried Lady Trafford; "on my soul, I will!" "Speak then!" returned Rowland. They were in many respects so right; she clung to that, and shirked more and more the paradoxical conviction that they were also somehow, and even in direct relation to that rightness, absurd. She could tell that he was leering at her. She would look up, shake her head, and then go back to her reading or crewelwork. The fever came. Love and lavender, he thought, perhaps wistfully. And he, her lawful husband, dared not go to her and console her! Accursed—all of them— Enschede, Ruth, and himself. To—to find myself.
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