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Perhaps Ramage was the more astonished. It now came to him with an added thrill how well she had told her story; simply and directly, no skipping, no wandering hither and yon: from the first hour she could remember, to the night she had fled in the proa, a clear sustained narrative. His clothes had evidently seen some service, and were plentifully begrimed with the dust of the workshop. ‘Jacques, do not die while I am gone. It was impulsive and natural. On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. You did not see me, I know. She turned back to Gerald, holding out her hand. The spinster saw herself growing warm again in the morning sunshine of youth —a flaring ember before the hearth grew cold. His food lay untouched about his plate.
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