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. "Well, how goes it?" he asked. Spurlock, filled with self-mockery, sat in a chair on the west veranda. The next moment he was by her side. Gerald? But could he be here so quickly? She hastily dabbed at her eyes, thankful for the darkness that she saw had come on outside unnoticed, dimming the room. Let me take the satchel, sir.
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