He lowered himself onto her and entered her slowly, an inch at a time. Ramage, that iron-gray man of the world, appeared dressed in a bowler hat and a suit of hard gray, astride of a black horse. He remembered little whispered speeches of hers, so like the Annabel of Paris, so unlike the woman he loved, a hundred little things should have told him long ago. This getting up at dawn—real dawn—and working until seven was a distinct novelty. Kneebone's 346 XIV. “The fees are paid to the end of the session.
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