I don’t want to stop your singing. ’ For a moment he looked daunted. Ramage!” she cried, and struggled to her feet. His head bent down, intent on kissing her underneath the showerhead. Evidently in the flower of his age, he was scarcely less remarkable for symmetry of person than for comeliness of feature; and, though his attire was plain and unpretending, it was such as could be worn only by one belonging to the higher ranks of society. He returned her to her door at a decent hour, well before 10:00. I don’t mind it. “My word holds,” she said.
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