She would always be going to and fro up the Avenue, getting glimpses of Ramage, seeing him in trains. In a sense I don’t care. Her complexion was wan and faded, except where it was tinged by a slight hectic flush, that made the want of colour more palpable; her eyes were large and black, but heavy and lustreless; her cheeks sunken; her frame emaciated; her dark hair thickly scattered with gray. “But I am your husband,” he said. ’ Gerald shrugged. I’ve got a streak of male.
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