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At the bottom of her heart she was not a bit afraid of Ramage. Say something. She could not judge its direction, and began to move swiftly along the bookshelves, her hand running behind her across the spines of the calfbound volumes. Their small talk continued. Sometimes she missed her cue and nodded affirmatively when the gesture should have been the reverse; and Prudence would send her a sharp glance of disapproval. "Your mother is dead," interposed Wild, scowling. She put her head out of the window. He was tender with her as he had not been in years. A sudden knock at the door startled her.
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