There were the burnt papers still in the grate. “He must never know,” she would whisper to herself, “he must never know. "An hour hence, I shall be beyond your malice," said Mrs. But let that verse tell my secret. And at the thought of that other lover—he was convinced that that beloved person was a lover, and she found herself unable to say a word to explain to him that this other person, the person she loved, did not even know of her love—Ramage grew angry and savage once more, and returned suddenly to gibe and insult.
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