His pulses beat fast as he walked, his feet fell lightly upon the pavement. Wrenching his hands from her shoulders, she thrust them away and leapt up from the chair. The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. There was nothing of the phenomenon in this. “But this is a surprise!” said Ramage. He was full of fabulous stories, not just tales of his own past in Rome but wonderful fables from the mysterious Orient and the ancient Greeks, old jokes and yarns that only he remembered. ’ ‘But he gives them to me.
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