She was vehemently impatient—she did not clearly know for what—to do, to be, to experience. She saw, twenty yards down the platform, the shiny hat and broad back and inimitable swagger of Ramage. ‘In that case, he is probably already dead, and you have nothing to worry about. He was sitting back from the table now, with one arm over the back of his green chair and the other resting on the little table. “But your sister?” he asked. The dinner was stranger than she had ever anticipated. F. CHAPTER XIII. Stanley regarded him through his glasses with something approaching animosity. Lucy collapsed to the floor in a sob.
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