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“Does he ever ask about me?” She asked, feeling like a cuckolded old maid. One swift glance about the room, and a sensation of grim foreboding swept through him. 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. She would be elemental; there would be in her somewhere the sleeping tigress.
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