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. Occasionally he would lean back and stare at the window which gave upon the sea. She turned the gas up in her little sitting-room, and sank wearily into an easy chair. Winds returned, the gardens withered, and roses would not bloom. ” He stared at her incredulously, and she laughed very softly. ” “There was no need for such heroism,” Annabel said coldly. Martin came to the door, looking radiant and relieved.
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