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. The walls rocked, the footrail of the bed wavered, and the girl's head had the nebulosity of a composite photograph. The books slid from her arms and fluttered to the floor.
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