Ramage, that iron-gray man of the world, appeared dressed in a bowler hat and a suit of hard gray, astride of a black horse. The flowers upon the mantel-shelf were withered and drooping—she had gathered them. Arrived in Paris she remembered that she had not the money for a fiacre. “A joke! Sir John, if you had presented yourself here an hour ago we should have greeted you in pained silence. You were never married at all. A strong arm pulled her closer, and the lips that mouthed her own in tender touches sent her senses reeling. You will certainly be compromised.
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