It may be, it probably will all come to, nothing. “Well!” she declared good-humouredly. She opened it and drew out a letter, and folded within it were the notes she had sent off to Ramage that day. If he died, here in this hotel, who would care? Or if she died, who would care? A queer desire blossomed in her heart: to go to him, urge him to see the folly of trying to forget. Instead, they lived a Bohemian existence, moving from patron to patron, city to city.
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