“Dear John,” she whispered. As for Mike’s observations on John’s desires to get laid, it was the pot calling the kettle black. "It was given me by a man who was drinking t'other night with Blueskin at the Lion! and who, though he slouched his hat over his eyes, and muffled his chin in a handkerchief, must have been Jonathan Wild. 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. She recognized the cloth at once, waylaid him, and with that directness of speech particularly hers she explained what she wanted.
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