She loped forward on unnaturally long legs and arms that swung loosely. ‘I can manage now. I shall never come back. She read beautifully because the fixed form of the poem signified nothing. She always managed to get back to the bungalow before he did. You must think of this evening, John, sometimes—as a sort of atonement. And yet, she would be easy prey in her present state of mind to any plausible, attractive scoundrel. ‘Thank you,’ she said, leaning heavily on his arm for a moment. “They ought to have been lopped in the spring. And, in addition, she was now seeing and talking to Ramage almost weekly, on a theory which she took very gravely, that they were exceptionally friends. Poor Ben was not so fortunate.
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