Arrived there, the porter thundered at the massive door of the Lodge, which was instantly opened—Shotbolt's note having been received just before. It seemed intolerable that she should go home and admit herself beaten. Niece and aunt regarded each other for a moment over their pockethandkerchiefs with watery but antagonistic eyes, each far too profoundly moved to see the absurdity of the position. This was automatically rather than thoughtfully done; habit. She stared down at them from a high window, peering down at their moonlit faces in the bed heavy with furs, the same bed where she had given birth to Gianfrancesco’s dead son. Now, I'll be getting along. If he took a fancy to you, he invited you to the house for tea, bitter and yellow and served in little cups without handles. The more she disentangled the lines of her situation the deeper grew her self-disgust. He was struck disagreeably by Ramage’s air of gallant consideration and Ann Veronica’s self-possessed answers.
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