The detective backed out slowly and closed the door without sound. "It is her child!" shrieked Rowland, in a voice heard above the howling of the tempest, "risen from this roaring abyss to torment me. With a cry of distress, she dropped the pistol and flew after him, racing past him to the door. She remained stonily in the middle of the hallway until the spinsters' door shut them from view … for ever. “Won’t you tell me why you have come to England?” she said. She wore a plain black dress, reaching almost to her throat—her small oval face, with the large brown eyes, was colourless, delicately expressive, yet with something mysterious in its Sphinx-like immobility. ‘What is it?’ ‘Er—shouldn’t I tell—I mean, the young lady, sir—’ ‘You can leave the young lady to me.
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