“But how is it all going to end?” said Mr. Her sense followed the shoulders under his coat, down to where his flexible, sensitive-looking hand rested lightly upon the table. These sweeping dignities were not within the compass of her will; she remembered she liked Ramage, and owed things to him, and she was interested—she was profoundly interested. If he adhered to this policy—to keep away from her inconspicuously—she would forget the name by night, and to-morrow even the bearer of it would sink below the level of recollection. “I wonder,” she began, presently, “why I love you—and love you so much?. " "That is your fault, none of mine. "And Jack?" "Gone too," sobbed his daughter. Take it, I tell you.
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