Ramage pursed his rather loose lips and shrugged his shoulders, with his eyes fixed steadily upon her. Now, it was a wilderness of weeds. He looked at Annabel, whose face was buried in her hands— he looked back at Anna, who was regarding him with an easy composure which secretly irritated him. We'll lather him with mud, shave him with a rusty razor, and drench him with aqua pompaginis. I am up to the ears in it all— every moment I can spare. A Hand that strove to reach his shoulder, relentless, soulless but lawful.
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