"It is her child!" shrieked Rowland, in a voice heard above the howling of the tempest, "risen from this roaring abyss to torment me. That dress she has on—my mother might have worn it. “Sit down,” he said, and perused—“perused” is the word for it—for some moments. The whole place had come to life, the magic seeped out of the walls. ‘Would you care for some refreshment? A glass of wine, perhaps?’ ‘Nothing, merci, I do not remain,’ she answered, although she did not rise.
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