Seemed like he knew so much—more than me, miss. Ramage—about the forty pounds. She, perhaps, displayed herself rather consciously as a fine person unduly limited. It was time to disappear, no more Becks, no more Spaghetti Nights, no more afternoon kisses in the park with John Diedermayer. CHAPTER XV. She went to a writing-desk and made some memoranda on a sheet of note-paper, and then remembered that she had no address as yet to which letters could be sent. ‘Point it at me.
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