Will you let me go out of this room?” “No,” cried Ramage; “hear me out! I’ll have that satisfaction, anyhow. Mother? Suzanne Valade, her mother? With deliberation, he spoke. Such ambitions as he had were stereotyped and material. Some day I'm going to paint her; but that will be when I've retired. At last—I told a story. “Anna,” he cried eagerly. That a longing of hers should be realized in this strange fashion was difficult to believe: it vaguely suggested something of a trap. It was as if her aesthetic sense had become inflamed. Not even for Ruth could he do such a beastly thing.
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