He lived on the seventh floor behind a winding set of hallways that towered over her in their grayness. " "The pianist?" "Yes. “Why can’t you tell people that you are what you are? Why all the secrecy?” She looked beyond the farmhouse. 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.
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