She cried for hours but would not scream as her mother was packed into a marble coffin. "I never saw the like of you! One has to guard one's actions constantly in this wicked world, if one is a woman, young and pretty. 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. Her gown was minimalist compared to those concoctions of boning and lace of long ago, she reflected, but that did not stop it from getting caught on 134 brambles and twigs.
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