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. Melusine turned and turned, unable to imagine just where the secret door could be. The folds of a thick muslin neckcloth in some degree protected him, but the gash was desperate. Now how in the world was he to get rid of the husband? His luck was in.
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