She spent the morning up to ten in writing a series of unsuccessful letters to Ramage, which she tore up unfinished; and finally she desisted and put on her jacket and went out into the lamp-lit obscurity and slimy streets. I do not know. He was always tenderly courteous; he answered her ordinary questions readily and her extraordinary ones patiently; he always rose when she entered or left the room. She could have dined alone in her room; but courage had demanded that she face the ordeal and have done with it. “How can you know?” “I think—perhaps I am rather a cold-blooded person. “Why not?” he exclaimed.
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