He was a Wiltshire Edmondshaw, a very old family. She had expected a love story; and love was totally absent. She would wake in the night to repeat her bitter cry: “Oh, why did I burn those notes?” It added greatly to the annoyance of the situation that she had twice seen Ramage in the Avenue since her return to the shelter of her father’s roof. "And the will?" he said, with forced calmness. He was dressed with the utmost care, and he set his feet upon the broad walk as though the action were in some way a condescension. It must have cut him. You will agree with me when you have heard what I have to say.
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