“That doesn’t touch the question I asked you,” she said. 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. You shall have room to develop, you shall live as you will, where you will, only give me the right to protect you, to free you from all these petty material cares. “Why do you hate me again, my love?” He seemed to brighten, feeding upon the intensity of her emotion.
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