Her eyes were fixed upon the ground, the pink colour coming and going in her cheeks was very delicate and girlish. 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. Even in his fevered hours, so the girl had said, his tongue had not betrayed him. Her fingers passed over a cunningly wrought surface of wood, with just the correct amount of protrusion, the precise colours of dyed leather, and cleverly gilded surfaces and neatly painted lettering. It must have been impossible to see me through that much rain.
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