His wife's portrait had been removed from the walls, and the place it had occupied was only to be known by the cord by which it had been suspended. These sweeping dignities were not within the compass of her will; she remembered she liked Ramage, and owed things to him, and she was interested—she was profoundly interested. As silent as she had remained about who had brought her home last night. She was nearly dead. “You cannot! Oh, you cannot. He smiled complacently.
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