Well, it's scarcely credible. 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. Mr. A moment before he had been a strong man, she had been in his power, a poor helpless thing. She thought of them as fools, but had been sorry to see them go. “When you married me——” Her little hand flashed out across the table. That's the only fault I know of. Perhaps I am still mad. She finished the olive and looked up.
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