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My Novel — Volume 08 by Baron Edward Bulwer Lytton Lytton
page 27 of 105 (25%)

"But who communicates no secrets to living man," said Randal, almost
bitterly; "who, close and compact as iron, is as little malleable to me
as to you."

"Pardon me. I know you so well that I believe you could attain to any
secret you sought earnestly to acquire. Nay, more, I believe that you
know already that secret which I ask you to share with me."

"What on earth makes you think so?"

"When, some weeks ago, you asked me to describe the personal appearance
and manners of the exile, which I did partly from the recollections of my
childhood, partly from the description given to me by others, I could not
but notice your countenance, and remark its change; in spite," said the
marchesa, smiling, and watching Randal while she spoke,--"in spite of
your habitual self-command. And when I pressed you to own that you had
actually seen some one who tallied with that description, your denial did
not deceive me. Still more, when returning recently, of your own accord,
to the subject, you questioned me so shrewdly as to my motives in
seeking the clew to our refugees, and I did not then answer you
satisfactorily, I could detect--"

"Ha, ha," interrupted Randal, with the low soft laugh by which
occasionally he infringed upon Lord Chesterfield's recommendations to
shun a merriment so natural as to be illbred,--"ha, ha, you have the
fault of all observers too minute and refined. But even granting that I
may have seen some Italian exiles (which is likely enough), what could be
more natural than my seeking to compare your description with their
appearance; and granting that I might suspect some one amongst them to be
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