Taking the direction pointed out, he rode off. “You were talking to that fellow Ramage to-day—in the Avenue. Taking this for encouragement, her suitor proceeded still more extravagantly. His face was half hidden under a freshly pipeclayed sola topee—sun-helmet. She was sick of herself, of her life, of everything but him; and for him all her masked and hidden being was crying out. It was the last thing she felt like drinking.
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