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. Fresh ground, no chicory, and all the rest of it. Rain changed to hail, then 154 sleet, then snow. She spoke with a certain odd deliberation carefully chosen words which fell like drops of ice upon the man who sat listening.
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