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They reached Wimbledon, and Ramage whipped out to hand Miss Stanley to the platform as though she had been a duchess, and she descended as though such attentions from middle-aged, but still gallant, merchants were a matter of course. I loved her so much. She could visualize the picture she had presented, particularly the battered papier-mâché kitbag at her feet. He had the same dark eyes, though lighted by a fierce flame; the same sallow complexion; the same tall, thin figure, and majestic demeanour; the same proud cast of features. But the general was turning on him, the hint of emotion wiped from his lined features. Nothing seemed to be amiss. It got on my nerves—the women I saw. There was a concerted gasp of shock from both the black-garbed lad and the coachman. “Of course you don’t. ‘And now, monsieur le major—’ ‘I will see you to the door,’ Gerald said, looking with interest at the building that his observant groom had told him housed a small collection of nuns. But, no.
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