It was Ramage, the occupant of the big house at the end of the Avenue. She read voraciously, and presently, because of her aunt’s censorship, she took to smuggling any books she thought might be prohibited instead of bringing them home openly, and she went to the theatre whenever she could produce an acceptable friend to accompany her. ‘Yes, like you,’ she snapped, with a venomous glance, her role evidently forgotten for the moment. “More coffee, hon?” She held her hand over the cup. “It’s all right,” he said, reassuringly to the inquirer without. Her dress, it has just been said, was neatness and simplicity itself. "Is there anything wrong with it?" "Wrong? Why, you have been imposed upon somewhere. Sorry to be so nosy. His hand fell lightly to her chest where her heart was 211 beating, almost tenderly.
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