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"I don't know how it is," he added in a low voice to Thames, as they were left alone, "but I've a strange foreboding of ill. Ramage, by a hundred skilful hints had led her to realize that the problem of her own life was inseparably associated with, and indeed only one special case of, the problems of any woman’s life, and that the problem of a woman’s life is love. Cheveney was looking after her, I think, then. The brilliant sunshine poured through the window, effecting an oblong block of mote-swimming light. “Anna!” she repeated. There’d only be endless rows if I was at home. But that explains everything. But that's an infirmity shared by a great many sounder heads than mine. Late in July he finished the fourth story. " "Very well. ’ She flounced back to stare out of the window again. “Please stop, cabman,” she ordered. ’ ‘Precisely.
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