She spent the morning up to ten in writing a series of unsuccessful letters to Ramage, which she tore up unfinished; and finally she desisted and put on her jacket and went out into the lamp-lit obscurity and slimy streets. He recognized me at once, and he behaved like a madman. Dear me, what a difference it has made! No one would ever think that we were sisters. Think! You could not have done it. F.
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