She sat herself upon the bed. “Whither away?” he said, very distinctly in a curiously wheedling voice. If hate could kill, Ramage would have been killed by a flash of hate. And he, her lawful husband, dared not go to her and console her! Accursed—all of them— Enschede, Ruth, and himself. Within forty-eight hours the girl would be on her way east and the boy see-sawing the South China Sea, for ever moving at absolute angles. “It’s jolly of you to come,” said Ramage. No tricks would serve. There is turmoil, shouts, cries, jostlings, milling congestions that suddenly break and flow in opposite directions. I haven’t, anyhow. It was such an unexpected stroke of fortune.
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