” “You what?” she repeated incredulously. She had treated him badly; she had hurt him and her aunt; she had done wrong by their standards, and she would never persuade them that she had done right. “You are coming my way,” Courtlaw answered. A pig, yes, a little. 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. He stopped short of a group of adolescent saplings and turned the ignition off. Yet her embarrassment was only a passing thing.
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