"I thought you'd have got rid of your ill-humour by this time. You are my prisoner, murderer. He remembered it suddenly. She heard his voice screaming her name into the twilight as she fled, his cries trailing like banners, weaving through the breeze that had begun to gently stir the dew on the ground. She went to the post-office and drew out and sent off her money to Ramage. Don’t look so frightened. Leaning upon a gate he looked down into the valley. She spent a very disagreeable afternoon and evening—it was raining fast outside, and she had very unwisely left her soundest pair of boots in the boothole of her father’s house in Morningside Park—thinking over the economic situation and planning a course of action. He had thought it might have that effect. ” “I began to be afraid you might not come at all.
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