These were his mistresses, Poll Maggot and Edgeworth Bess. It became suddenly glaringly apparent to her that it was impossible to return fifteen pounds or any sum less than twenty pounds to Ramage—absolutely impossible. Probably a sick man's whim. It was a perfect windless spring day, a Sunday. “Look here, Ann Veronica,” he began. The funeral, it has just been said, took place on that day. She could not make up her mind which was the finer, more elemental thing, which gave its values to the other.
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