She spent the morning up to ten in writing a series of unsuccessful letters to Ramage, which she tore up unfinished; and finally she desisted and put on her jacket and went out into the lamp-lit obscurity and slimy streets. ‘And so you sneak back,’ she threw at him, ‘like the jackal that you are. There was an eerie sense of brooding menace about an uninhabited establishment. ’ ‘It’s too late for that,’ Gerald told her evenly. Anna leaned back with half closed eyes.
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