She read beautifully because the fixed form of the poem signified nothing. And at the thought of that other lover—he was convinced that that beloved person was a lover, and she found herself unable to say a word to explain to him that this other person, the person she loved, did not even know of her love—Ramage grew angry and savage once more, and returned suddenly to gibe and insult. I thought that Hill was dead, but I was frightened, and I wanted to get away from Paris. ” He was arrested for a moment by an indistinct picture of Veronica reading this last sentence.
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