I give you the plain, unadulterated truth. Then he went back to his rooms and lit a cigar. “Well, you know. . ‘They weren’t no soldiers. 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. But he wrote on.
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