It made me wake up, and there I lay thinking of you, spending your nights up here all alone, and no one to look after you. “One is always playing the surgeon, one kills always the thing one loves best. Ramage, that iron-gray man of the world, appeared dressed in a bowler hat and a suit of hard gray, astride of a black horse. What can she be? The wife of a country tradesman, or a duchess? And such a meek little husband too. “You belong to me,” he said fiercely; “the marriage certificate is in my pocket.
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