Stanley went on, “but there are things— there are stories about Ramage. White caught her eye, and smiled benignly down the table. Annabel shines like a star in the darkness, Rosamund queens it a rose, deep rose; But the lady I love is like sunshine in April weather, She gleams and gladdens, she warms—and goes. Jackson smiled and put on the air of a man who knows more than he cares to tell. “Come in here a moment, will you, Blanche,” he said. Even in her own sorry skin-and-bones state of wraithlike pallor and gray under eye circles she was drawing unwanted attention from would-be admirers. 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. We needn’t try and give ourselves airs.
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