“Anna,” he said, “you make it all indescribably hard for me. He hadn't gambled or played the horses or hit the booze back there in little old New York…. I should think, Anna, that your own sense—er—of propriety would enable you to see this. "However, I'll refresh your memory. "Your business, Sir?" returned the other, stiffly. " "Ah! Did he tell you anything about himself?" "Aside from that, no. ‘Fiddle, Gerald. Me—I’m nothing but a country wench, and one who went to the bad. “It was not necessary,” Sir John answered stiffly. At once. The lighting-up pierced the obscurity of the box, and Ramage stopped his urgent flow of words abruptly and sat back.
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