It was Ramage, the occupant of the big house at the end of the Avenue. This lady is my wife, and I have a right to be here. Her fanciful imagination no longer drew pictures of the aunt in the doorway of a wooden house, her arms extended in welcome. You must live for me. ‘But I ain’t been idle, miss, I swear it. Rhea writhed and scuttled about like a crab.
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