And there was no intimation whatever that the blinds would ever go up or the windows or doors be opened, or the chandeliers, that seemed to promise such a blaze of fire, unveiled and furnished and lit. These sweeping dignities were not within the compass of her will; she remembered she liked Ramage, and owed things to him, and she was interested—she was profoundly interested. A thickly-set, sandy young man, with an unwholesome complexion and grease-smooth hair, had entered the room. But he might have broken out of prison, and yet not got over the wall of Clerkenwell Bridewell. “If you say so, Lucy.
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