” She stopped. And like that gospel it meant something, something different from its phrases, something elusive, and yet something that in spite of the superficial incoherence of its phrasing, was largely essentially true. That he was immolating Ruth on the altar of his conscience never broke in upon his thought for consideration. But I trusted to that ring of yours. John laughed even harder, his eyes misting over. She breathed into a cloth soaked in rose oil as Sebastian had prescribed, but the smell of roses mixed obscenely with the smell of death and decay, causing her to retch. ‘I escape from a fate entirely misérable, you understand. Fifteen from forty is twenty-five. Ramage,” she said, “I can’t—Not now.
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