They reached Wimbledon, and Ramage whipped out to hand Miss Stanley to the platform as though she had been a duchess, and she descended as though such attentions from middle-aged, but still gallant, merchants were a matter of course. She cried out with the pain of it. “I don’t know how to prove myself to you, John. But ——” A look checked him. Wanton! Had I been one, even God would have forgiven me, understanding. But, no. It was intolerable to think that he might overhear words and phrases. No! I do not even know that he cares for me. Jane was a smoldering auburn-haired Irish beauty who seldom spoke to anyone. He propped himself up on one arm, kissing her passionately. No one spoke to her. She tried gentle words with him, beguiling perfumes, even slipped aphrodisiac tisanes into his soup. Sheppard.
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