They WERE, she realized, acutely beautiful things. Lucy cringed, her eyes widening. Ramage, that iron-gray man of the world, appeared dressed in a bowler hat and a suit of hard gray, astride of a black horse. “Don’t be an ass, Ferringhall,” he said tersely. She wanted air—and the distraction of having moving and changing things about her. The lunches were individual affairs: sandwiches, bottled olives and jam commandeered from the Victoria. ” 240 “Then I’ll wait for you. I borrowed forty pounds from Mr.
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