What other reason could there be? It’s more complex, but it’s better. "She wouldn't let me go. She spent the morning up to ten in writing a series of unsuccessful letters to Ramage, which she tore up unfinished; and finally she desisted and put on her jacket and went out into the lamp-lit obscurity and slimy streets. The flowers upon the mantel-shelf were withered and drooping—she had gathered them.
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