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. Wild horses wouldn’t drag it out of me, even I knew anything, which I don’t. “FAIL!” she said. "It is the fiend!" she exclaimed, recoiling. I'll be outside the hotel at nine-thirty. Why not? Imagine I’ve had a fit of hysteria—and that I’ve come round. She held out her hand for it, but Gerald smiled. Her greatest exploit was the howling before the mid-day meal.
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