At Christmas he gave her a set of a small edition of Meredith’s novels, very prettily bound in flexible leather, being guided in the choice of an author, as he intimated, rather by her preferences than his own. At breakfast both of them played their parts skillfully. "Friends!" echoed Kneebone, with a look of dismay. Her eyes were lit with mirth, the corners of her mouth quivered. ‘You have a knack of saying just the wrong thing. Ramage,” she said, clinging to her one point, “I want to get out of this horrible little room. There was a mad musician, seemingly rapt in admiration of the notes he was extracting from a child's violin. Gerald perhaps would know how to find him. Sydney Courtlaw—Mr.
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