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Kneebone in a conciliatory tone. The lighting-up pierced the obscurity of the box, and Ramage stopped his urgent flow of words abruptly and sat back. Relief flooded her. But he. He was and always would be dramatizing his emotions; perpetually he would be confounding his actual with his imaginary self. She hated to leave; for this hour would be the most interesting. “Why not?” “Because you are mine. "It's all over," groaned Wood, "and perhaps it's as well her senses are gone.
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