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. . ’ ‘It’s immaterial, in any event,’ Roding put in. But if I were dying of thirst, in a desert, I would not accept a cup of water at her hands. ‘Damnation! Too late. He threw up his hand, reeled for a moment on his feet, and collapsed upon the floor.
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