She crawled into her small bed, dizzy with the thoughts of him, of kissing him. It was like the grin of a fiend, and made my flesh creep on my bones. She would wake in the night to repeat her bitter cry: “Oh, why did I burn those notes?” It added greatly to the annoyance of the situation that she had twice seen Ramage in the Avenue since her return to the shelter of her father’s roof. “We are only in the dawn of the Age of Friendship,” he said, “when interest, I suppose, will take the place of passions.
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