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. Certain simple purposes emerged from the disingenuous muddle of her feelings and desires. “And what is it all about, Veronica?” he asked, with a deliberate note of irony, looking at her a little quizzically over his glasses. Why, Nab, you shake as if you'd got an ague?" he added, turning to the Jew, whose teeth chattered audibly. ‘The secret passage!’ It did not take long to find the mechanism of the candlesconce that opened the door.
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