This was his sister, evidently in the last extremity. Her secret thoughts made some hasty, half-hearted excursions into the possibility of telling the thing in romantic tones—Ramage was as a black villain, she as a white, fantastically white, maiden. Even the abstract paintings on the wall were gray. ‘You know about that?’ ‘It was the only possible deduction. It was the grand nursery of vice. She tried to imagine herself “getting something,” to project herself as sitting down at a desk and writing, or as returning after her work to some pleasantly equipped and free and independent flat.
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