That he was immolating Ruth on the altar of his conscience never broke in upon his thought for consideration. She emerged with a white face and wide-open eyes upon a little, red-lit landing. You are in danger. He went on munching his water-chestnuts, and stared at the skyline. She had found it in 1988, the year of the stock market crash. So, at least, thought one of two persons who were seated together in a small back-parlour of the house at Dollis Hill. Ramage back his forty pounds. The turnkey looked round the next moment, but the manoeuvre escaped his observation. Moving swiftly to the end of the corridor, he pushed open a door at random and entered a large room, which looked to have been a saloon, judging from the faded gilt and crimson wall-paper, a mirror above the fireplace which was surrounded by an ornate gilded frame, now sadly tarnished, and a worn Chippendale sofa with striped upholstery and tasselled cushions. ‘You cannot be always with me.
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