“I wish you and I had drunk that love potion,” he said. But here was new music, tender and kindly and whimsical, that first roved to and fro in the mind and then cuddled up in the heart. She used his own gun against him, a method that was occasionally cleaner than slitting throats when she got it right. These sweeping dignities were not within the compass of her will; she remembered she liked Ramage, and owed things to him, and she was interested—she was profoundly interested. She repeated phrases of Mrs.
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