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      There was a moments silence, Varley breathing hard and looking just above Traffords head. The blood was beginning to burn in his veins as Esmeraldas wrongs rose before him. This man standing there was the man who had deceived her and wrecked the childs life."You mean, do you not? that I've no right to say what can only distress you."


      "Why--yes! Oh, she's fine! And yet I--"


      "Oh!"--a yet wickeder smile.

      I know, said Lord Trafford again, sadly.

      No, no! Esmeralda exclaimed, with a strange expression in her voice and face. No, no! I am not!


      His hand fell upon the back of the chair beside him and gripped it, and his face went white again.

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      He asked the question with that futile hoping against hope which we are all so apt to indulge in.He did not answer. He was going back to the morning of the wedding, to Esmeraldas embarrassment at sight of Norman.

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      He went into the smoking-room of the Marlborough and lighted a cigarthat solatium of the angry, the wounded, the wearied, and the sore oppressed. He had not been there five minutes before a young friend entered and hailed him with sprightly welcome. He was a wild young Irish viscount, Lord Dunworthy, who was rapidly running through a fortune which he had recently inherited, and enjoying life as only a young Irishman can. He was the gossip of the club, and Trafford usually liked to listen to his light-hearted chatter; but he could have dispensed with it this afternoon.[183]

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      Half-way down he pulled up to consider. The solitude was intense, and, to a man fresh from the crowds of England, somewhat awe-inspiring. The mountains towered above him, the torrent roared in the valley below, a bird rose from the undergrowth and darted upward with a shrill cry.


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