After much clapping, they started. "General inspection after lunch; drying bins, stores and the young palms south-east. 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. The act was mechanical, a bit of sparring for time: his anger was searching about for a new vent.
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