She flung herself back into the bare little room, cold, empty, comfortless. She, having all the confidence in the world, ripped off an end and drew out the contents—a letter and a check. She was sorry for his liking her too much for his own good, but her need was too desperate to cavil at turning it to useful account. She’s naïve, and yet uncannily shrewd at times, and you daren’t rely on anything she says. This one was Henry Esmond, that one the melancholy Marius, and so forth and so on; never any villains. And in the Avenue she had an encounter with Ramage. The command was sullenly obeyed, for the fellow did not appear to relish the rating. "It's wretched enough, indeed, Sir," rejoined the widow; "but, poor as it is, it's better than the cold stones and open streets. During the foregoing occurrences a dead calm prevailed. I tried to have it out with him, but he wouldn’t have it out.
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