It seemed to her at this moment that there was nothing left for her to do. ” His voice assumed an easy detached tone. “So you’re the one my son has been talking about. She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. Her secret thoughts made some hasty, half-hearted excursions into the possibility of telling the thing in romantic tones—Ramage was as a black villain, she as a white, fantastically white, maiden. She dreaded leaving him for the night, but separated herself finally. Don't unman him. Opposite to her was a sallow-visaged young man, whose small tie seemed like a smudge of obtusively shiny black across the front of a high close-drawn collar.
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