“And all the rest of it perhaps is a song. He wanted to know what the joke against him was—if any. 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. Martin came to the door, looking radiant and relieved. Pretty good stuff, some of it. And they never talked of anything at all, never discussed, never even encouraged gossip. Afterward he stole out of the room with the bloodstained sheet to boast her virginity to his brothers and father, which only truly mattered because she was beautiful, her mother had said.
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