Her aunt, a faded, anæmic-looking lady of somewhat too obtrusive gentility, was still sitting with her hand pressed to her heart. But not so much a pig as that man. “Ah!” said Ramage, impressively. To these she added the wine and spirits directed, and when all was arranged looked inquisitively at her master. In one hand she carried a long-stalked red rose, dripping with dew, in the other the post-bag.
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