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The evening breeze came; the bamboo shades on the veranda clicked and rasped; the loose edges of the manuscript curled. ‘And that object confirms me in the belief that it is not I who will shortly meet my maker. It had been a trying day. She had slept badly at first in a long chair next to the fire waiting for him to return, but caught on after that. 207 She romanced a dark-haired farmer a few times, having long since forgotten his name. "He is dying?" whispered Ruth. Even in her own sorry skin-and-bones state of wraithlike pallor and gray under eye circles she was drawing unwanted attention from would-be admirers. She was like an angel with one wing. “How are you, Lucy?” Martin ran to catch her in the crowded hall. " "From whom?" vociferated Trenchard. Earles. “I am not in need of any.
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