" "Sir Rowland is my brother," resumed Lady Trafford coldly. "Who's there?—Pshaw! it's only the wind. In a convent, you understand, one is like a servant, even if one is a lady. For what indeed does she do? A simple song, no gesture, no acting, nothing. Opposite to her was a sallow-visaged young man, whose small tie seemed like a smudge of obtusively shiny black across the front of a high close-drawn collar. I—I hurt myself. CHAPTER XXX.
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