" "Sir Rowland is my brother," resumed Lady Trafford coldly. You see—I didn’t understand. A dull light shone through the open window blinds and softened the room with parchment yellowness. He should never sufficiently be able to regret the return which they had made to her. . He remembered little whispered speeches of hers, so like the Annabel of Paris, so unlike the woman he loved, a hundred little things should have told him long ago. She used to play violin, you know.
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