D. ’ ‘Damnation!’ ‘What the devil ails you?’ demanded his friend, striding forward. "You will never leave me," sobbed the poor woman, straining him to her breast. These sweeping dignities were not within the compass of her will; she remembered she liked Ramage, and owed things to him, and she was interested—she was profoundly interested. “I wonder if there is anything wrong with my manners,” she said. She had unaccountable gleams of sympathy with and liking for him. She entered the front hall, formerly magnificent, now faded and dusty, the old wood table waiting for guests who would never come. Another coach was then procured, in which the prisoner was placed. The poet's appearance altogether was highly prepossessing. It was rude and disrespectful to raise her eyes to him, her mother had warned.
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