Ramage looked at her for a long and discriminating interval without speaking. A familiar ache of wanting made itself more insistent in her belly. She was going to him soon and certainly, going to his strong, embracing arms. Behind the poet came Sir James Thornhill. Things were thrown here and there, to be taken up, or again cast aside, as the whim arose; while the broken-backed chairs and crazy table bore the marks of many a conflict.
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