He was a square-faced man of nearly fifty, with iron-gray hair a mobile, cleanshaven mouth and rather protuberant black eyes that now scrutinized Ann Veronica. At the back of her mind there seemed always one irrelevant qualifying spectator whose presence she sought to disregard. Thank you for the books. “You are magnificent,” she said, “but the steel of your truth is a little oversharpened. The curtain came festooning slowly down, the music ceased, the lights in the auditorium glowed out, and Ann Veronica woke out of her confused dream of involuntary and commanding love in a glory of sound and colors to discover that Ramage was sitting close beside her with one hand resting lightly on her waist. Now you can understand why every minute is a torture to me. '—'Pretty well,' says I; 'you're not badly off at the Friars, for that matter. He would sit in his inner office and compose conversations with her, penetrating, illuminating, and nearly conclusive—conversations that never proved to be of the slightest use at all with her when he met her face to face.
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