The more her thoughts dwelt upon the subject, the more convinced she was that she could not go to any one for help; she would have to solve the riddle by her own efforts, by some future experience. If hate could kill, Ramage would have been killed by a flash of hate. Don't you understand? Back among your own again, and only a few of us the wiser. How she needed him! Next moment, she had wrenched open the door, and was confronting her guard. \"Where are you going?\" She cried. “I should imagine,” he said, shaking out a copy of The Times, “that it is your brain which is addled.
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