"Poor Jack!" cried Winifred, burying her face in her lover's bosom. “I thought that I heard a groan,” Anna whispered. The thought of their faces, and particularly of her aunt’s, as it would meet the fact— disconcerted, unfriendly, condemning, pained—occurred to her again and again. Then it came to her with a shock, as an extraordinary oversight, that she could never tell Manning about Ramage—never. ‘Do not beg my pardon. It engulfed them in black, white, and gray.
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