"Where am I?" she cried, passing her hand across her brow. He was vaguely uneasy; he knew not what about. “He naturally does not wish for connexions which are—I do not wish to hurt you feelings, Anna, but I must say it—not altogether desirable. Montague Hill. The sun was setting, casting long dreary shadows across deformed apple trees. "To-morrow I will take you to him. Ramage went up the Avenue, and she hurried along the path with a beating heart and a disagreeable sense of unsolved problems in her mind.
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