"Si—lence!" vociferated Charcam, laying great emphasis on the last syllable. He was not a sailor. Her girl, Clarice, was ten and just as pretty as a silver bell. We are alone, Sir Rowland," he added, snuffing the candles, glancing cautiously around, and lowering his tone, "and what you confide to me shall never transpire,—at least to your disadvantage. "You won't betray him. That is why I ask you. No trouble will ever come to your sister through me.
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