"I'm your dupe no longer. Sepulchre's. Spurling," rejoined Ireton; "we can taste the rum when he returns. She would wake in the night to repeat her bitter cry: “Oh, why did I burn those notes?” It added greatly to the annoyance of the situation that she had twice seen Ramage in the Avenue since her return to the shelter of her father’s roof. It was just a shabby, stupid, furtive business that began between us. Guiding this man of hers over the troubled sea of life had engraved these lines.
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