The Times slipped from his fingers. “Annabel,” she said, “I have never asked you for your confidence. It is only the women matter. 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. . Besides, you cannot tell where it will end. . For yonder went the loneliest man in all God's unhappy world.
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