She did not want particularly to know what had caused his agony, what had driven him back to the old coat. Her mind turned to her own future, the endless trickle of years. There is no other way. She would wake in the night to repeat her bitter cry: “Oh, why did I burn those notes?” It added greatly to the annoyance of the situation that she had twice seen Ramage in the Avenue since her return to the shelter of her father’s roof. A middle-aged countrywoman, plump of cheek, and a little shy. .
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