It was Ramage, the occupant of the big house at the end of the Avenue. Sometimes her straying mind would become astonishingly active—embroidering bright and decorative things that she could say to Capes; sometimes it passed into a state of passive acquiescence, into a radiant, formless, golden joy. Her father was distinctly irascible, and disposed more than ever to hide away among the petrological things—the study was turned out.
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