But a middle-aged man like Ramage ought to know better than to draw out a girl, the daughter of a friend and neighbor. She's my mealticket. Blood dripped down one side of her forehead. Naturally you shout yourself hoarse when she has finished, and feel jolly pleased with yourself. Her eyes flashed. The atmosphere at dinner was not propitious. ” “But how?” “I poured him out some port wine, and I said—let me see—oh, ‘You are going to be a grandfather!’” “Yes.
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