She would wake in the night to repeat her bitter cry: “Oh, why did I burn those notes?” It added greatly to the annoyance of the situation that she had twice seen Ramage in the Avenue since her return to the shelter of her father’s roof. We must wave our hands at the blue hills far away there and go back to London and work. And yet—I love you. Capes?” she heard her aunt saying. Only an undermaid I was then.
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