And in some incomprehensible way, Ramage was confused with Capes; she had a grotesque disposition to persuade herself that this was really Capes who surrounded her, as it were, with wings of desire. " "A novelist?" cried Ruth, thrilling. He came along, he said, just to call, with large, loud apologies, radiantly kind and good. I should have known at a glance if it was. ‘You are jealous!’ ‘Yes,’ he agreed simply. I felt—I felt living in a masked world.
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