It became suddenly glaringly apparent to her that it was impossible to return fifteen pounds or any sum less than twenty pounds to Ramage—absolutely impossible. He pulled on his pants, his yellow shirt with the ridiculous horse logo, his brown socks, and shoes. There was no sense in creating further difficulties for herself by arguing with the sergeant over her identity. He was a just man, and he did not care to start any thunder which was not based upon fairness. Whether it was the nun’s habit or the harlot’s clothing that distressed her more, he could not begin to guess. ” “Perhaps you don’t. Even if he were an old friend, you couldn't afford to do it. The deafening report froze time. Then she stepped back into the empty room and stood for a moment looking down upon the scattered fragments of her last canvas. "He will kill me," cried Thames.
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