And at the thought of that other lover—he was convinced that that beloved person was a lover, and she found herself unable to say a word to explain to him that this other person, the person she loved, did not even know of her love—Ramage grew angry and savage once more, and returned suddenly to gibe and insult. It’s the poor dears who do, who know they will, know they can’t keep it up, who need to clutch at way-side flowers. We pretend we never think of everything that makes us what we are. I die happy—quite happy in beholding you. Something to tell you.
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