Shy, grateful in her loneliness for this unexpected attention, she had listened. But a middle-aged man like Ramage ought to know better than to draw out a girl, the daughter of a friend and neighbor. His voice propelled her to cry even harder, so hard that she began to laugh behind her tears. Her life hangs upon a thread, and this may snap it. She was a lone white woman, therefore marked. It was a habit she had taken from Remenham House, but could not wear because of the colour which must draw attention. She recognized him as the man who had blundered into the wrong room.
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