While he thus vented his rage, the door again opened, and Quilt Arnold rushed into the room, bleeding, and half-dressed. She gloried in it: he needed her. Not far from him was a knot of lads drinking, swearing, and playing at dice as eagerly and as skilfully as any of the older hands. She would always be going to and fro up the Avenue, getting glimpses of Ramage, seeing him in trains. " Quitting the night-cellar, the trio soon arrived at the riverside. ‘As I said, a mistake.
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