If hate could kill, Ramage would have been killed by a flash of hate. It had her raven locks, her pouting lips. Suddenly he felt Ruth swing violently away from him, and he wheeled to learn the cause. They give themselves airs, but so it is. He shuddered. She had been obliged to wait all morning for the opportunity to talk to Martha, who chose always to retire to her cell for the period of recreation that preceded afternoon prayers. ‘Never mind that now. I can’t.
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