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He saw her eyes pass him and settle on a fleetingly pretty strawberry blond girl and her effeminate father. If she mentioned Ramage he might have a fit—anything might happen. She had a bittersweet fragrance, like dusty books and honeysuckle. She was trembling a little. The recollection of all her unhappiness, the loveless years, the unending loneliness, the injustice of it, rolled up to her lips in verbal lava. You are the one person I can understand and feel—feel right with. ‘Come, Jacques, mon pauvre,’ she uttered, and reached for the lad again, hardly aware of the muted sounds of running feet and much banging and crashing beyond the secret door. It is a serious accusation.
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