. “I wrote it for you. ” He greeted her. Ramage, speaking the simplest first thought of his heart. She suspected that he would take a mistress just as soon as they returned to Florence. . If you were a poet in need of rhymes, you had only to turn to a certain page. She was aware of people—her aunt, her father, her fellow-students, friends, and neighbors— moving about outside this glowing secret, very much as an actor is aware of the dim audience beyond the barrier of the footlights. “Fancy stabbing a man for jealousy!” she thought.
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