They crossed the street, and entering the front door passed up the outside stone steps of the flat. “I’m going to talk of indifferent themes,” said Ramage, a little fussily, “until these interruptions of the service are over. He awoke, strangely content. Montague Hill is. Good night!" She pressed his hand and went out. Sometimes—a lonely forlorn child—she had gone to him and put her arms around his neck. The signal of distress was evidently understood.
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