Her long incarceration at the convent in Blaye had taught her to be dismissive of her own appearance. The love-songs of all the ages were singing in her blood, the scent of night stock from the garden filled the air, and the moths that beat upon the closed frames of the window next the lamp set her mind dreaming of kisses in the dusk. ILLUSTRATED WITH SCENES FROM THE PHOTOPLAY PRODUCED BY DISTINCTIVE PICTURES CORPORATION NEW YORK GROSSET & DUNLAP PUBLISHERS THE RAGGED EDGE CHAPTER I The Master is inordinately fond of young fools. Then, as Ramage readjusted himself in a corner, he remarked: “These young people shoot up, Stanley. The future? He dared not speculate upon that.
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