He knew me, Nigel. Ramage. “You were talking to that fellow Ramage to-day—in the Avenue. I swore I would bring your husband to the gallows,—would plunge you in such want, such distress, that you should have no alternative but the last frightful resource of misery,—and I also swore, that if you had a son he should share the same fate as his father. Outside stood a stocky, combat boot-clad girl of seventeen with a teased mass of spiky bottle-black hair. Perhaps, after all, the others were right.
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