" "We'll be waiting for you. Ramage controlled his expression and thought very quickly. Ruth was inflammable; she would always be flaring up swiftly, in pity, in tenderness, in anger; she would always be answering impulses, without seeking to weigh or to analyse them. His thoughts, indeed, were too painful for utterance, and so acute were his feelings, that, for some time, they quite overcame him. “It is true. Wood. Once before—but that had been different. I go back about once a year. During the week, her uniform was the blue and white scrubs of a nurse, the job she had suffered at for twenty-seven years. He was asleep. Proof that the scoundrel had risen from the dead—for he was dead to his father! He glared at the female whose appearance in England had revived those painful memories—churning unbearably since Brewis Charvill had brought him the news and put him in the worst of tempers—and the fury spilled out. Glancing around his prison, he began to think it possible he might effect an escape from it. She had fallen into it naturally, the only expression of the dance she had ever seen or known, and that a stolen sweet.
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