But here the resemblance stopped. She grew attached to a pair of twins, a boy named Fritz and a girl named Anna, belonging to an auburn-haired Viennese prostitute named Clotilde. Capes came back into her mind. As time went on, she began to think Martha had been mistaken. He kept at it even on those nights when the monsoon began to break with heavy storms and he had to weight down with stones everything on his table. And Ramage too—about Ramage there would always be that air of avidity, that air of knowledge and inquiry, the mixture of things in his talk that were rather good with things that were rather poor. ‘Oh, Jacques, I cannot forgive myself!’ ‘Never you fret, miss,’ he uttered at once in a faint voice. Not a bad man as men go, but he would sell whisky and gin.
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