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“It was poison—why not?” she answered. ” Her heart had warmed toward him. It was Ramage, the occupant of the big house at the end of the Avenue. 235 “No, I think she’s out sick with a throat infection. Something, then, to appease the wrath of God; something to blunt this persistent agony. There one is! The same stuff still! One has a craving in one’s blood, a craving roused, cut off from its redeeming and guiding emotional side. His face, as he looked down where his hand sought for a weapon concealed in her petticoat, was so close that she could see only the line of his firm jaw, the drag of his powdered hair that drew it into the military pigtail, and the black ribbon that adorned it.
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