He returned figuratively to his bed—the bed he had made for himself and in which he must for ever lie. This niggardliness compelled him to cross and recross streets. 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. That might happen on her birthday—in August. Anna was not “Alcide” of the “Ambassador’s,” whose subtly demure smile and piquant glances had called him to her side from the moment of their first meeting. He laughed lightly. He felt that he might soon be separated—perhaps, for ever—from the fond little creature he held in his arms, whom he had always regarded with the warmest fraternal affection, and the thought of how much she would suffer from the separation so sensibly affected him, that he could not help joining in her grief. "Another moment, and it'll be too late. I wish she wouldn’t look like that at us over her glasses. On Saturday he went to that there Mr Charvill’s house. She sat down awkwardly and helplessly on one of the little stools by her table and covered her face with her hands. The evening was warm and inviting, one meant to be spent outdoors. She opened this and scrambled out—a thing she had not done for five long years of adolescence— upon the leaded space above the built-out bath-room on the first floor.
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