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. You didn’t even do that Vee; not even that. Then came the cable that you were in Canton, ill, but not dangerously so. I go back about once a year. But what did the occupant of the box care? The laugh was always with the dead: they were out of the muddle.
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