He embraced her small body in his arms, kissing her forehead over and over. If he did resemble me, I shouldn't care about him. Tell him the truth, Annabel. If hate could kill, Ramage would have been killed by a flash of hate. Good-bye, for the pressent—ha! ha!" And, laughing loudly at his own facetiousness, he quitted the Lodge. 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. He did not like it, he said, with a significant look, to be reminded of either his books or his dinners after he had done with them. In a tall glass the rind of a Syrian orange was arranged in spiral form. ” “I came,” Anna answered, looking her sister steadily in the face, “to hear all that you can tell me about a man named Hill.
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