The clerk at the Raffles Hotel had accorded her but scant interest. "One-and-twenty, ah!" repeated Gay. "What was it?" He was insistent. "Where am I?" asked Spurlock. She found herself again in the presence of some element in life about which she had been trained not to think, about which she was perhaps instinctively indisposed to think; something which jarred, in spite of all her mental resistance, with all her preconceptions of a clean and courageous girl walking out from Morningside Park as one walks out of a cell into a free and spacious world. "Women must have their wills while they live, since they can make none when they die," observed Wood, as he imprinted a kiss of reconciliation on the plump hand of his consort;—a sentiment to the correctness of which the party chiefly interested graciously vouchsafed her assent. Life is a patchwork of impressions, of vanishing personalities. “Ritter’s!” said Ramage to the driver, “Dean Street. “I love this warm end of summer more than words can tell,” he said.
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