‘This is not love, Marthe. Ramage,” she said, sharply, “I have to make it plain to you. “What do you think of that?” he asked. But his glance roved, to the door through which Ruth had gone, to Enschede's drooping back. I was sorry for what I did afterwards; for, I don't know why, but, poor, lady! with her pale face, and black eyes, she reminded me of my mother.
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