Surely she could ignore him. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. He meditated, and began a new paragraph. It was then, I am sure, empty. She leaned forward in her chair, as if petrified in fear by the scary story. He wore a black tail coat buttoned tightly over his chest, and a large diamond pin sparkled in a white satin tie which had seen better days. I wish some one would kill Ramage by accident!. ‘He is not in England, you understand. Sheppard.
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