First, I went to Country Tom's, the Goat, in Long Lane. But at length, there was a click, and with a swish, the panel of painted books swung outward from the wall. Ramage went up the Avenue, and she hurried along the path with a beating heart and a disagreeable sense of unsolved problems in her mind. He would be off her case just as soon as his fever for her broke and he found a lover, and she imagined he must have plenty of girls from ritzy families lining up to choose from. But he died when he was a child—long ago—long ago—long ago. She forgot her vital hatred of the South Seas; she forgot that McClintock's would not differ a jot from the old island she had for ever left behind her; she forgot all the doctor's lessons and warnings.
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