You are nothing of the sort. ‘Just what I was going to tell you, miss. Somewhere you may stumble upon a clew to his identity. He held down the light, and a moment afterwards beckoned, with a blanched cheek, to Rowland. The perception of him flooded her being. By and by—as the paroxysm subsided and he became motionless—she stole back to the bungalow to wait.
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