“She must have character. My only love is for my poor lost son. “I do mean that,” she declared. "Something more than whisky did that. It was an overcast day, albeit not foggy, and the electric light shades glowed warmly, and an Italian waiter with insufficient English took Ramage’s orders, and waited with an appearance of affection. The fire—if there was any in him—never made headway against this insistant demand to know the significance of these manifold inward agitations.
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