If she mentioned Ramage he might have a fit—anything might happen. "It is the fiend!" she exclaimed, recoiling. He neither attempted to prevent his nephew's departure, nor to follow him. It feels like too much gold-dust clutched in one’s hand. She saw a pole-chair; that would be this Mr. But it was otherwise with the carpenter. The flowers upon the mantel-shelf were withered and drooping—she had gathered them. ‘Well?’ she said. The house will be well rid of him, for a more idle, good-for-nothing reprobate never crossed its threshold.
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