She had denied it with vigor, and here she was! She did not so much exhaust this general question as pass from it to her insoluble individual problem again: “What am I to do?” She wanted first of all to fling the forty pounds back into Ramage’s face. She obeyed, extending her arm. And he began also at times to wake at night and think about her. ‘You!’ ‘Yes, it is I, mademoiselle,’ he continued in his own tongue. You are not a tourist seeking adventure. Perhaps I am still mad. It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls. He looked down and met them.
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