There was nothing on her face to hint of the misery that brimmed her heart this morning. At any rate, here I am, and here I shall be, twenty thousand feet above all your poison-reeking cities, up where God’s wind comes fresh from heaven, very near indeed to the untrodden snows. ” “Severely dampened? By what?” “By hope. Some indeed carried themselves, dressed themselves even, rather as foreign visitors from the land of “Looking Backward” and “News from Nowhere” than as the indigenous Londoners they were. “You are the Sir John Ferringhall who has bought the Lyndmore estate, are you not?” she remarked. The ambitions of his life, and they were many, seemed to lie far away, broken up dreams in some outside world where the way was rough and the sky always grey. I don’t want to Bowdlerize Shakespeare. Ramage went up the Avenue, and she hurried along the path with a beating heart and a disagreeable sense of unsolved problems in her mind.
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