He could have easily forced it, but preferred a more expeditious mode of reaching the roof which suggested itself to him. You are all that I am or hope to be—the celestial atom God put into me at the beginning. We are alone, Sir Rowland," he added, snuffing the candles, glancing cautiously around, and lowering his tone, "and what you confide to me shall never transpire,—at least to your disadvantage. You see, it's like this. ‘Well, shan’t I come to the major’s house up Stratton Street, sir?’ ‘I’ll give the major your report, Trodger.
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