The unknown, previously so attractive, now presented another face—blank. Ramage looked at her for a long and discriminating interval without speaking. In her sitting-room I found Montague Hill. Battle, murder, and sudden death—and an old chap like McClintock tuning his piano in the midst of it. And turning again, as if the emotions she had churned up kept her on the move, she paced back to the mantel and there stopped, staring at her own reflection in the tarnished mirror. I dare say anything seemed better to her than the nun’s habit she had been obliged to use.
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