When they started getting on each other’s nerves, she blamed herself at first. "It is her child!" shrieked Rowland, in a voice heard above the howling of the tempest, "risen from this roaring abyss to torment me. "Can't you guess?" returned Winifred, throwing her arms about her neck. No hair to fall awry, no powder to displace, no ruffles to crush; men are lucky.
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