On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. Ramage,” she said, sharply, “I have to make it plain to you. She saw it, and checked without thinking. “I want to speak to you about a little thing, Vee,” said Mr. Very well, then. I'm one of those unfortunate duffers who have too much imagination—the kind who build their own chimeras and then run away from them. It's infernally provoking. ‘We will converse in your own tongue,’ he said in French as he led her away.
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