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. With a swirl of her floral chintz petticoats, she placed herself in the capacious window seat, accepted the glass Gerald handed to her, and smiled mischievously up at him. She tried not to pant, not to reveal herself, and she began to shake. She was amazed that at over sixhundred years old that she could miss her parents so bitterly. Time after time he reminded her of how powerless she would be without him, how unkind the world was towards single women.
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