Ramage, that iron-gray man of the world, appeared dressed in a bowler hat and a suit of hard gray, astride of a black horse. " "To be sure you are," replied Jonathan, laughing. " Not many days after this event, on a bright October morning, the bells rang a merry peal from the old gray tower of Willesden church. “Well——” She stopped short. Hold your hand for a moment. She directed him to an old part of the highway, a featureless stretch of old farmhouses capped in snow, with the occasional working silo. She thought of him as always courteous and helpful, as realizing, indeed, his ideal of protection and service, as chivalrously leaving her free to live her own life, rejoicing with an infinite generosity in every detail of her irresponsive being. Moving back to the corner again, she ran a hand back over the leather-bound books—which, she realised, were not books at all.
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