"Your uncle, Sir Rowland?" "It is no idle boasting," replied the other. ” “What?” He asked. “I cannot keep silence any longer. ‘Bête,’ she flung at him. The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill. She paced restlessly to the door and back again, biting her tongue on the hot words begging to be uttered. But no matter how you phrase it, the end is the same.
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