Ramage!” she cried, and struggled to her feet. "He shan't go," cried Edgeworth Bess, holding him by the other hand. It was long and narrow, a well-lit, wellventilated, quiet gallery of small tables and sinks, pervaded by a thin smell of methylated spirit and of a mitigated and sterilized organic decay. It would have been the right idea, had Ruth been other than what she was.
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