How she hated talking of the man who was responsible for her being brought into the world. When she finally did take her own lover, it was not with a member of the household staff. The day was unseasonably humid and dark, a thick fog having descended over manicured lawns. Sometimes I think she’s tired of us. "Perhaps," replied Wood, doubtfully. Ramage did not know. Let us stay the night here. She read beautifully because the fixed form of the poem signified nothing.
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