At the open door stood a young man in a rich garb with a mask on his face, who was encouraging the mob by words and gestures. “You will sign the contract?” “I shall sign the contract. Ramage pursed his rather loose lips and shrugged his shoulders, with his eyes fixed steadily upon her. But you will, you will. The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping.
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