"It is her child!" shrieked Rowland, in a voice heard above the howling of the tempest, "risen from this roaring abyss to torment me. " "There is a great art in it, if you did," quoth he. He lifted her from the floor. ” The girl sat up and looked at him with a curious twist at the corners of her mouth —humorous or pathetic, he could not tell which. He turned me so that he could have a companion in his loneliness. For a pity, she has chosen to remain, and it has been her death.
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