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Come, mon ami, come!’ Ever faithful, Kimble dragged himself into a sitting position, gasping at the pain this caused him. The tropical dawn is swift. 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 met his eye for a moment in curious surprise. It was a gray day in the spring of 1910. Still, something had marked the face, something had left an indelible touch.
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