That a longing of hers should be realized in this strange fashion was difficult to believe: it vaguely suggested something of a trap. She advanced, stabbing at him. Spurling, for so was she named, had a warm nut-brown complexion, almost as dark as a Creole; and a moustache on her upper lip, that would have done no discredit to the oldest dragoon in the King's service. The rain smelled of the Tyrrhenian Sea, which lay only a few paces beyond the manor's white sea-soaked walls. Slowly, he drew back his head and looked into her face. The man lingered. But at last this ordeal was over, and Ramage opened the door. Ruth was inflammable; she would always be flaring up swiftly, in pity, in tenderness, in anger; she would always be answering impulses, without seeking to weigh or to analyse them. Tender with the sick, firm with the strong, fearless, with a body that had the resistance of iron, there was nothing of the hypocrite in him. “A little touchy this evening, aren’t we, Missy?” Michelle chided her friend.
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