Perhaps, after all, the others were right. Let me only wear your livery. Meantime the spinsters sought the dining room where tea was being served. Her secret thoughts made some hasty, half-hearted excursions into the possibility of telling the thing in romantic tones—Ramage was as a black villain, she as a white, fantastically white, maiden. They simply understood there was a greater need to get over the past than to talk about it. Gerald sympathised with his friend’s irritation. He never finished his sentence.
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