At night she would turn it in her fingers like a rosary bead. Fortescue is an actor, and your father does not approve of the profession. Yet she held her tongue. She had made her way since then a little further into the heart of life. She turned about, and was persecuted by visions, half memories, half dreams, of Ramage. He fixed it. Her eyes glistened in the darkness—for light was only admitted through a small grated window—like flames, and, as she fixed them on him, their glances seemed to penetrate his very soul. Prudence.
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