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Thanks. “So, how’d it go?” Lucy sighed. 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. What lends a tragic mockery to all these tender traps of hers was that she was within lawful bounds. Sheppard, horror-stricken. "To-morrow night!" said Spurlock, in a wondering whisper.
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