"It is her child!" shrieked Rowland, in a voice heard above the howling of the tempest, "risen from this roaring abyss to torment me. Besides," she added, blushing yet more deeply, "it isn't a proper one to talk upon. "I never stand upon ceremony where I know I shall be welcome. But the recollection of the warm pliant body in his arms …! "I am a thief!" he whispered.
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