Her hair touched water, becoming like the seaweed in its velvet slickness. 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. Couldn’t face me with what he’d done, the miserable blackguard. It was his purpose to complete four or five stories before he sent any away.
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