He’d borne mention of the woman’s name. Day after day—five, to be exact—she had returned to Morgan's; and each time the man would understand what had drawn her, and with a kindly smile would sit down at the piano and play. She used to play violin, you know. The prisoner breathed with difficulty. There was Major Price—you must recollect him, Sir Rowland,—he stumbled as he was getting out of his chair at that very gate. Who but you would have dreamed of giving the boy such a name? Why, it's the name of a river, not a Christian.
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