“And as for praying for faith—this sort of monologue is about as near as any one of my sort ever gets to prayer. 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. And I want you for myself—for my wife. You women, with your tricks of evasion, you’re a sex of swindlers. Sir John filled his glass with trembling hand.
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