They talked for the better part of an hour, and at last walked together to the junction of highroad and the bridle-path. She spent the morning up to ten in writing a series of unsuccessful letters to Ramage, which she tore up unfinished; and finally she desisted and put on her jacket and went out into the lamp-lit obscurity and slimy streets. She looked directly at his face, his perpetually graying hair, his hawkish nose, his long cheekbones. I knew it. Thames Darrell.
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