"Rowland," said Lady Trafford, regarding him with a look of indescribable anxiety, "you have assured me that I shall behold my son. You sing better than Annabel ever did, you have even a better style. ‘That there governess didn’t like it, of course, me being the lodgekeeper’s girl, and Martha just a country wench like me. Journeying blindly half way across the world, this man had found his quarry. Then she fell into a fever of remorse for the habit of bad language she had acquired.
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