For in life there is but one hour: an epic or an idyll: all other hours lead up to and down from it. I have slept with it under my pillow. I certainly didn’t mean to kiss you. And at the thought of that other lover—he was convinced that that beloved person was a lover, and she found herself unable to say a word to explain to him that this other person, the person she loved, did not even know of her love—Ramage grew angry and savage once more, and returned suddenly to gibe and insult.
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