" CHAPTER XVIII. ” “Ugh! That poor girl! What a horrible guy! Did he?” “Yeah, it was his. ‘Her own,’ Gerald replied. Probably a sick man's whim. "Took a great fancy to you. She pulled the door so that it was not quite to, and held out her hand, palm up. Her bald head had swollen on her shoulders, puffy with fresh blood that ringed her mouth. 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.
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