" "Won't my life do as well as his?" supplicated the other. Jonathan caught her in his arms. "Hist!" cried Rowland, arresting his comrade. He was a square-faced man of nearly fifty, with iron-gray hair a mobile, cleanshaven mouth and rather protuberant black eyes that now scrutinized Ann Veronica. The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill. " "I don't know.
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