He forgot for the moment his own self-pity, the egotism of his own passionate love. It was Ramage, the occupant of the big house at the end of the Avenue. “I do not know you,” she said coldly. Each was draped in transparent silk, dancing, beckoning to me, teasing me. That was the Frenchie, Valade, surely. I want to go to that because it’s a new experience, because I think it will be interesting and give me a view of things.
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