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195 < 24 > A CITY IN GREECE, 589 B. ‘Oh, I don’t wish to marry you. It seems to me just talk; it seems to me like the fancy of a dream. They struck her as cold and indifferent. 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. "Is it by lettin' you go, my darlin', that I'm to airn it?" inquired Terence. One or two landladies refused her with an air of conscious virtue that she found hard to explain. Oh, don't worry. Wood had prevented him from paying much attention to the previous scene.
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