Ramage looked at her for a long and discriminating interval without speaking. “I had found her at last, and she shot me. “The very question shows your ignorance,” he declared. A dark mass of wreckage, over which hung a slight mist of vapour, lay half in the ditch, half across the hedge, close under a tree from the trunk of which the bark had been torn and stripped. “I would like to go home,” she cried, “to please her. You do not love your husband, you have married him for a position —to escape from—things which you feared.
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