Swiftly following the sound of knocking, she crossed right and passed through a door near the windows—and found herself in the bookroom. “One can talk without undertones, so to speak,” said Ramage. For the first time, perhaps, in his life, he repented of his brutality. The perfume was the only one she ever used. But out of a belated regard for her father she wrote the surname of some one else. The wind blew in fitful gusts, and scattered the yellow leaves from the elms and horse-chestnuts.
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