Anna rummaged about in her dressingcase, and finally drew out a letter. Ramage, that iron-gray man of the world, appeared dressed in a bowler hat and a suit of hard gray, astride of a black horse. “Anna,” she moaned, “I am a jealous, ungrateful woman. I wouldn't trust a Malay, not if he were reared in the Vatican. Anna raised her eyebrows at the sight of him. But I expect him back every minute.
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