“Why should one pretend?” she whispered. 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. There was still the pity of understanding in Ruth's eyes. Unless they remind him now and then not to. "And I'll bet a doughnut that boy in his soul is crazy to have it over with. You saw him? You have been to Remenham House?’ ‘Remenham House? I wish I’d been only to Remenham House.
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