Guns were impossible. “I wonder,” she said, “why one writes him sentences like that? It’ll have to go,” she decided, “I’ve written too many already. The lighting-up pierced the obscurity of the box, and Ramage stopped his urgent flow of words abruptly and sat back. Stanley almost liked Ramage. That he was immolating Ruth on the altar of his conscience never broke in upon his thought for consideration. Clotilde rushed out of the house, carrying her boy and tugging her girl by the ear.
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