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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. Every window, from the groundfloor to the garret had its occupant, and the roofs were covered with spectators. So let me assure you now that we are not accusing you of a crime. "Let me go," cried Winifred. She found herself alone in the train asking herself what she must do next, and trying not to think of herself as cut off from home or any refuge whatever from the world she had resolved to face. So he's come around, then? That's fine.
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