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"Rowland," said Lady Trafford, regarding him with a look of indescribable anxiety, "you have assured me that I shall behold my son. Bah. She dared not say the word aloud, not even to herself. A young man was playing the banjo. ” She laughed gaily. Her heart swelled to suffocation. She was almost tempted to tell him, if only to see the cracks of surprise and incredulity break the immobility of his yellow countenance. She gave me an impression of a sort of patched quilt; little bits of patterned stuff coming up again and again. She was too late. Her eardrums were burning with the echoes of those hideous shouts. “Leave them!” He yelled. “They would spoil every chance.

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