She had come to despise those who were fertile out of pure jealousy, but could not admit it to herself. ‘Jacques?’ she called out, forgetting the need for silence. “We’ve all been mixing our ideas, and we’ve got intellectual hot coppers— every blessed one of us. Will you let me go out of this room?” “No,” cried Ramage; “hear me out! I’ll have that satisfaction, anyhow. I can never be grateful enough. She was a trained being—trained by an implacable mother to one end. She knew blood was rushing to his face and other places as well.
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