The terror faded from her eyes. It was Ramage, the occupant of the big house at the end of the Avenue. “It has all been a mistake, hasn’t it?” “No more talking,” the doctor interposed. She had looked up from her seat at the small round table in the centre of the parlour which, together with the wooden armchairs beside the small fireplace, and a sideboard next the single casement, was all the furniture the place afforded. Mother and Son.
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