org/license). They talked lightly but confidentially until Sir John approached them with a slight frown upon his face. She was like an angel with one wing. “It has been a delightful evening for me. Ramage!” she cried, and struggled to her feet. “You have dyed your hair and darkened your eyebrows. He had been gone entirely one day, for yesterday afternoon he had departed from Remenham House, and she had waited with patience like a saint, and now it was again the afternoon. Stanley almost liked Ramage. Kneebone, who did not appear in the slightest degree disconcerted by his cool reception, each sank carelessly into a chair, and made himself at home in a moment. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story.
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