She would then hear his feet pounding up the steps and he would burst into whatever room she was sitting in and say, “There she is! My wife! Hiding her beauty from the world!” He would then run to her, grab her book or embroidery and unceremoniously toss them to the floor. Ah, Thierry and Poussaint, if my memory serves me. She began at once a hasty readjustment of her hair, while Ramage parleyed with inaudible interrogations. "Vot are you?" "Practising patience," growled Abraham.
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