‘I know that, miss. "You!" cried Jack, scornfully. One of your aunts died, I believe, and the other removed to London. His pulses beat fast as he walked, his feet fell lightly upon the pavement. It reminded her of one of the old tales her mother Marina had told her about a sculptor named Farhat. Ramage’s bitterness passed as abruptly as his aggression. There was no broken faith—not even any question of anything of the sort.
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