He held down the light, and a moment afterwards beckoned, with a blanched cheek, to Rowland. Before there is any change, any real change, I shall be dead—dead—dead and finished—two hundred years!. The costume of this personage was somewhat singular, and might have passed for a masquerading habit, had not the imperturbable gravity of his demeanour forbidden any such supposition. Only an undermaid I was then. We’re hedged about with discretions— and all this furniture—and successes! We are successful at last! Successful! But the mountains, dear! We won’t forget the mountains, dear, ever.
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