” She said to him as they walked past houses down the block. Ramage controlled his expression and thought very quickly. She was trying to bring her problems to a head, and her mind insisted upon being even more discursive and atmospheric than usual. She had to exert tremendous energy not to sniff the air for his blood. After all, what did it matter?—it or anything else in the world? She was within reach of his arms, beautiful, compelling, herself as it seemed suddenly conscious of the light which was burning in his eyes. But why do you ask?" "Because—" stammered the boy. Good riddance. And I've already told you the accident was not Jack's fault. I begin to understand Jane Austen and chintz covers and decency and refinement and all the rest of it.
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