‘Forgive my not rising to greet you,’ she said, holding out a claw-like hand. “I wonder,” she began, presently, “why I love you—and love you so much?. This woman knows me—’ throwing the remark at Lucilla ‘—and that I am the daughter of Mary Remenham. ” She whispered. Of you—an angel with one wing. They WERE, she realized, acutely beautiful things. She saw, twenty yards down the platform, the shiny hat and broad back and inimitable swagger of Ramage. Dim possibilities that she would not seem to look at even to herself gesticulated in the twilight background of her mind. He bowed over her hand, venturing to drop a kiss on it’s leathery surface.
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