" "My dear," observed Wood, "you should be more charitable—" "Charitable!" repeated his wife, "that's your constant cry. She was suddenly grave. She turned about, and was persecuted by visions, half memories, half dreams, of Ramage. He has no imagination, no real generosity. —Strype's Stow. You care for me a little, I know. Earles protested, seating himself before the desk, and dipping his pen in the ink.
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