She made a few protests, a few excuses for her action in accepting him, a few lame explanations, but he did not heed them or care for them. As she started, rearing up her head, a hand stole about her mouth and closed down hard. “He was in holy orders, and we were to have been married when he got a living. For ten years I've been trying to go home, but my conscience will not permit me, I hate the Orient. 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. " The Chinaman paused. ‘Is there a resemblance?’ ‘This is Mary Remenham?’ ‘That is my late niece, yes.
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