Loneliness. I have a good memory, you perceive, Sir Rowland. Her girl, Clarice, was ten and just as pretty as a silver bell. The eyes, too, though large and bright, and shaded by long lashes, seemed to betoken, as hazel eyes generally do in men, a faithless and uncertain disposition. I haven’t taken much account of it until now. I’m leaving you, and you can’t stop me.
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