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. Your life is like a funeral March. Away off in the fields the bluesmocked peasants bent still at their toil. "You musht do dat shob yourself, Mishter Vild," rejoined Abraham, shaking his head.
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