"Write as I dictate," he cried, placing a pen in the jailer's hand and a pistol to his ear. 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. “I wanted to go to an art-student ball of which he disapproved.
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