Her heart thudded. ’ He fitted the hat onto her head, and was aware as he did so of her eyes watching his face. Already the warm sun was drawing from the pines their delicious odour. She staggered to the fireplace and thrust it into the heart of the dying flames. Their small talk continued. "I am no man's mistress," answered the widow, crimsoning to her temples, but preserving her meek deportment, and humble tone. He still watched her and questioned her. Ramage,” she said, “please don’t talk like this.
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