“I want,” he said, with a white hand outstretched, “to take you out to tea. He stamped his last letter as Annabel entered. “How will you live?” she appealed. Then she went below. The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill. There was a discreet knocking at the door, and Ramage’s face changed. In truth, she had been quite glad to lose the argument about remaining while the bullet was dug out of Jack’s side.
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