She stepped into his arms. She replied, “I don’t care to draw attention to myself, Michelle. He had been dreaming of Ruth—an old recurrency of that dream he had had in Canton, of Ruth leading him to the top of the mountain. And instead of accepting the situation gratefully, he felt vaguely hurt! One evening in September a proa rasped in upon the beach. If hate could kill, Ramage would have been killed by a flash of hate. Her glasses moved quickly as her glance travelled from face to face.
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