She relented out of exhaustion, yet he would not let her near Marina, his embrace tightening. ‘I have an excellent excuse to remain comfortably ensconced in my parlour here, able to indulge in my favourite pastime. Will you let me go out of this room?” “No,” cried Ramage; “hear me out! I’ll have that satisfaction, anyhow. “I love this warm end of summer more than words can tell,” he said. You would rather live like the scum of the earth, in that little brown hovel you call a house, in bourgeois paradise.
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