It was Ramage, the occupant of the big house at the end of the Avenue. ‘What are you, a nincompoop? She was Nicholas’s wife, of course. She savored the sweetness of his lips, all of his great youth and passion and longed for his innocence, his complete lack of the knowledge of terrible things. She realized dimly that there was no personal thing behind his cry, that countless myriads of Mannings had “My God!”-ed with an equal gusto at situations as flatly apprehended.
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