They must be for your father. But I have never seen America. And at the thought of that other lover—he was convinced that that beloved person was a lover, and she found herself unable to say a word to explain to him that this other person, the person she loved, did not even know of her love—Ramage grew angry and savage once more, and returned suddenly to gibe and insult. Her face scarcely reflected his enthusiasm. A dozen books lay upon the counterpane. Her face reminded him of a delicate unglazed porcelain cup, filled with blond wine. His eyes caught at hers with passionate inquiries. .
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