’ Lucilla Froxfield laughed gaily. Oh, what’s his name? It’s on the tip of my tongue. While I have been pestering you, have you heard it? At least, you heard the first act. “Good,” he said, as he watched the colour come back to her cheeks. Wood, in his Sunday habiliments and Sunday buckle. “And aren’t there fees to pay at the Imperial College?” her aunt was saying—a disagreeable question. Ramage—about the forty pounds. To that, perhaps, a large part of its satisfyingness was due.
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