The boiling under her stern, however, told him nothing. ‘Dare I suppose that to be of her making?’ Gerald flushed. She saw her life before her robbed of all generous illusions, the wrappered life unwrappered forever, vistas of dull responses, crises of makebelieve, years of exacting mutual disregard in a misty garden of fine sentiments. Mother—dear mother!" he added, clasping her in his arms, "Look at me again. Ramage. ” He dabbed with his paper-weight again, and spoke in an entirely indifferent tone.
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