” He replied solemnly, looking straight into her eyes. The gardens were tidy and geometric, each avenue with a different purpose: flowers for cutting, herbs, brightly colored vegetables. “Dear John,” she whispered. It was Ramage, the occupant of the big house at the end of the Avenue. There’s plenty to be got out of life in a decent sort of way. She wanted to think of him as her beloved person, to be near him and watch him, to have him going about, doing this and that, saying this and that, unconscious of her, while she too remained unconscious of herself.
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