An uncomfortable silence followed. But you——” Something seemed to catch his breath. ’ ‘But Marthe, this is idiot. "I never had a pet. 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. So she took up Stevenson and began to read aloud. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. And she buried herself beneath the straw, which she tossed above her head with the wildest gestures. The gentlemen are so particular now, and a good thing too, I say. "No, I tell you," rejoined Jonathan, shouldering his way out of the crowd.
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