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. I must go to-night, or I shall never behold him again. The lamp was not yet lit, and in the dim light he bent forward as though trying to look into her averted face. ‘I thought as how it couldn’t do no harm, and as it turns out, it done me a bit of good.
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