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She would always be going to and fro up the Avenue, getting glimpses of Ramage, seeing him in trains. “That he should be in the same world with me!” said Ann Veronica, reduced to reading the list of good things the British Tea-Table Company had priced for its patrons. Her features were meagre, and ghastly white, and had the fixed and horrible stamp of insanity. And God had let him do it! He was—and now he perfectly understood that he was—treading the queerest labyrinth a man had ever entered. If she spoke to a policeman she did not know what would ensue.

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