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. Through this, his last trial, Jack's spirits never deserted him. “Oh, Ann Veronica!” he cried, “I cannot let you go like this! You don’t understand. Clarice rubbed her belly, singing songs to the unborn baby.
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