” “Too much character, and too little sentiment,” he answered. In vain Wood protested his innocence. “What ought you to do?” “I’ve hunted up all sorts of things. ” “I suppose all IS well that ends well. 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. “You didn’t expect that I should kiss you?” “How was I to know that a man would—would think it was possible—when there was nothing—no love?” “How did I know there wasn’t love?” That silenced her for a moment. I’d rather starve!” For a moment the conversation hung upon that declaration. " "My son!" echoed the widow, trembling. A sense of loss was amongst us.
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