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‘You are wise, Marthe. He drew her to him with his hands upon her waist. It would be an ice storm by midnight if it did not let up. It was not that the servants could not, they simply preferred to. ” She played with her hair. "She wouldn't let me go. She would always be going to and fro up the Avenue, getting glimpses of Ramage, seeing him in trains. “This life is killing me! Oh, it is dull, dull, dull!” Suddenly an idea seemed to strike her. “But I am your husband,” he said. Balanced on his nose were enormous tortoise-shell spectacles.
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