The lighting-up pierced the obscurity of the box, and Ramage stopped his urgent flow of words abruptly and sat back. She was posing before the mirror, critically, miserably, defensively, and perhaps bewilderedly. “I don’t know how, but I always manage to find a 164 fiddle if there is one around. She was feeling extraordinarily well that night, so that the sense of her body was a deep delight, a realization of a gentle warmth and strength and elastic firmness. It seemed to him that a sort of mist had risen up between them.
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