“I remember,” she said, “that the first night I saw you, you spoke of my sister as your friend. You think you love this other man! No doubt you do love him. She spent the morning up to ten in writing a series of unsuccessful letters to Ramage, which she tore up unfinished; and finally she desisted and put on her jacket and went out into the lamp-lit obscurity and slimy streets. Too busy. "Though you lorded it over that fond fool, Mrs. Earles glanced at it, and his eyes flashed with anger. .
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