"It is her child!" shrieked Rowland, in a voice heard above the howling of the tempest, "risen from this roaring abyss to torment me. I really must leave you now. As she did so, the ruffles to the jacket of her riding habit fell away, exposing livid blue bruises about her wrist, ugly in the light of day from the window at their back. All four people moved a little nervously into the drawing-room, maintaining a sort of fluttered amiability of sound and movement.
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