You would rather live like the scum of the earth, in that little brown hovel you call a house, in bourgeois paradise. “I don’t know whether I shall go on,” said Gwen, a novel note of languorous professionalism creeping into her voice. She had not seen Ramage for ten or eleven days, and she was quite ready for a gossip with him. But on Sunday he had been obliged to attend to certain matters for the nuns. "I yield to fate. “I love this warm end of summer more than words can tell,” he said. ” “Believe me that I have answered you wisely,” she said, in a gentler tone, “wisely for you too, as well as myself.
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