The jealous burn at his eyes subsided and his finger came up. The call of youth to youth, and we name it love for want of something better: a glamorous, evanescent thing "like snow upon the desert's dusty face, lighting a little hour or two, was gone. The lighting-up pierced the obscurity of the box, and Ramage stopped his urgent flow of words abruptly and sat back. Come into the parlour, Winifred, and dry your eyes directly, or I'll send you to bed.
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