" He departed, musing. She made lumpish and inadequate interruptions rather than replies. “I did not recognize him,” Anna answered. After all, they’re history in the making. His hair is oddly streaked with gray —I might say a dishonourable gray. She turned about, and was persecuted by visions, half memories, half dreams, of Ramage. She crept behind the open door and pounced on him when he came out of the bathroom, knocking him onto the floor with a loud thud.
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