My only excuse is that I missed my way here, and I am leaving Paris early to-morrow morning. Winifred, accordingly, left the room, and a servant being despatched to the nearest tavern, soon afterwards returned with a crown bowl of the ambrosian fluid. If hate could kill, Ramage would have been killed by a flash of hate. She shuddered; the room was unfamiliar and unwelcoming. I loved her beyond anything in heaven or on earth—to idolatry.
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