She meditated long and carefully upon her letter to her father before she wrote it, and gravely and deliberately again before she despatched it. You—It’s jolly of you to confide in me. But here the resemblance stopped. The white haze of poison clouded her eyes. She would wake in the night to repeat her bitter cry: “Oh, why did I burn those notes?” It added greatly to the annoyance of the situation that she had twice seen Ramage in the Avenue since her return to the shelter of her father’s roof. "I was about to add," continued Gay, "that my opera shall have no music except the good old ballad tunes. A glance down the passage—to see that Roding was not lurking?—and her face came back to Gerald, triumph in her eyes.
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