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’ It was the Press who forced the identity upon me. "Rowland, your violence is killing me," she returned, in a plaintive tone. Then, though full of confidence, he half doubted his power of accomplishing his designs. It was the sing-song girl idea, magnified many diameters. The features were indistinct, but was that not a halo of white about it? And the dark shadow below, was that a cloak, or the habit of a nun? Skirting the dancing, from which he had taken a breather—not from lack of energy, but to escape the inanities of the young ladies he had partnered—Gerald made his way to a side door in the saloon and opened it.
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