“No, I am alone,” she answered. 6. A strong arm pulled her closer, and the lips that mouthed her own in tender touches sent her senses reeling. ‘Adieu, imbecile,’ she threw at him gleefully. 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. No further responsibility whatever. "Why does she weep?" Ruth wanted to know. Nor Jacques.
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