Many things were only words, sounds; she could not construct these words and sounds into objects; or, if she did, invariably missed the mark. ‘Yes, I know. When I think of the love you give me—One ought to give you back love. She would wake in the night to repeat her bitter cry: “Oh, why did I burn those notes?” It added greatly to the annoyance of the situation that she had twice seen Ramage in the Avenue since her return to the shelter of her father’s roof.
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