She realized that with a pang of disgust and horror. Five hours later she tiptoed down the hall and paused at the threshold of what they now called his study. He beheld a tall gaunt man, his brown face corrugated like a winter's road, grim, stony. And at the thought of that other lover—he was convinced that that beloved person was a lover, and she found herself unable to say a word to explain to him that this other person, the person she loved, did not even know of her love—Ramage grew angry and savage once more, and returned suddenly to gibe and insult. "Thank Heaven!" she gasped. “Nothing can cheer me,” he said, “except champagne. “So, how’d it go?” Lucy sighed. It was obviously pitched well, hitting her head at a good thirtyfive miles per hour. “I’m just off, aunt,” said Ann Veronica. Read that letter, Thames—my lord marquis, I mean.
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