"It is her child!" shrieked Rowland, in a voice heard above the howling of the tempest, "risen from this roaring abyss to torment me. No matter how often she came across this phase in love stories, there was never anything explanatory: as if all human beings perfectly understood. It was dawn: Cathy would soon be off to the restaurant and Larry off to paint a house. I suppose if one were to love some one, one would feel doubtful. ’ Her lips parted, but she did not speak.
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