She had denied it with vigor, and here she was! She did not so much exhaust this general question as pass from it to her insoluble individual problem again: “What am I to do?” She wanted first of all to fling the forty pounds back into Ramage’s face. My only love is for my poor lost son. " There was a brief, breathless pause. “Let us sit down for a moment,” he had said. Everything in his favour—the luck of the gods! The only white men were miles down the coast. As she hoisted her skirts near her waist, she thought ruefully of the last time she had worn such an elaborate gown, sometime near 1910 when petticoats were still considered hip everyday garb.
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