’ ‘That’s right,’ agreed the militiaman, coming forward to stand before her. With delicate touch he rescued all that was possible of them, and made a careful little parcel. “Feel better. But for a long time, anyhow, we lovers have to be as if we were no more than friends. It was just a chance that we in particular hit against each other—nothing predestined about it. His voice now had lost its ironies. She would wake in the night to repeat her bitter cry: “Oh, why did I burn those notes?” It added greatly to the annoyance of the situation that she had twice seen Ramage in the Avenue since her return to the shelter of her father’s roof.
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