She spent the morning up to ten in writing a series of unsuccessful letters to Ramage, which she tore up unfinished; and finally she desisted and put on her jacket and went out into the lamp-lit obscurity and slimy streets. “YOU had to come in. The kindly faced landlady had failed to catch his name, and said he was a tall, handsome gentleman with a great black mustache. I told you no good would come of it. It is the only way. All that confidence, born of irony, disappeared; and fear laid hold of him. D'ye hear.
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