"As it's getting late, and the porter may be gone to bed," he observed; "I'll take the pass-key, and let myself in. And at the thought of that other lover—he was convinced that that beloved person was a lover, and she found herself unable to say a word to explain to him that this other person, the person she loved, did not even know of her love—Ramage grew angry and savage once more, and returned suddenly to gibe and insult. And then, for the first time, Wood noticed a small stream of blood coursing slowly down her cheek. “You were booked of course.
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