She would always be going to and fro up the Avenue, getting glimpses of Ramage, seeing him in trains. I came in by the vestry, and we will go out that way again. I made a wrong choice, it seems—but my voice remains. “Do you know,” she confessed, “I never thought of that?” He looked at her as though doubting even now whether she could possibly be in earnest. He was always deceived by these rustlings which promised wind and seldom fulfilled that promise. I have never been wrong about the sex of an unborn child. So you are Prudence Remenham. She required no instructions from books; her wit and beauty were her own.
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