She wore a wonderful dress of turquoise blue, made by a great dressmaker for a function which she knew very well now that she would never attend. He would get her to come to tea with him, usually in a pleasant tea-room over a fruit-shop in Tottenham Court Road, and he would discuss his own point of view and hint at a thousand devotions were she but to command him. I once might have married you for your beauty,—now I marry you for your wealth. “I cannot thank you, Sir John,” she said. I have it about me. I find you an impenetrable enigma. "Her blood be upon her own head, then," replied Rowland, sternly.
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