“Were you thinking of private apartments, a boarding-house or an hotel?” she asked. ‘Léonore, then?’ She shook her head animatedly, enjoying his attention. ‘You said—who?’ ‘Remenham. She spent the morning up to ten in writing a series of unsuccessful letters to Ramage, which she tore up unfinished; and finally she desisted and put on her jacket and went out into the lamp-lit obscurity and slimy streets. Sheppard, which she gratefully declined.
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