The slight smile that played upon Winifred's lips seemed to say that she was not quite so sure. We looked upon you, my dear Sir John, with reverence, almost with awe. 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. We can’t be lovers in the ordinary sense, but we can be great and intimate friends. ‘That is imbecile.
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