“It seems so unfair,” she said, “to take all you offer me and give so little in return. She had traversed perhaps three bookshelves, passed across the door that must lead to the hall, turned the corner, and was just about to reach the fireplace when she abruptly became aware that something under her fingers had felt wrong. Even so much allusion as this to that family shadow, she felt, was an immense recognition of her ripening years. 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. "She is.
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