Breakfast, too, was an impossible occasion. 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. She could hear the bell tinkle as the horse shook its head. There is nothing but your pride which stands between us. ‘And if it is true that you love me, I do not know why it is that you do not kiss me again at once.
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