The uncanny directness of those gray eyes, the absence of diffidence, the beauty of the face in profile (full, it seemed a little too broad to make for perfect beauty), the mellow voice that came full and free, without hesitance, all combined to mark her as the most unusual young woman he had ever met. It was his redemption, his ticket out of hell—that blue-serge coat. Love was joy, and joyous she was when alone. ‘And if he is dead I know not. If hate could kill, Ramage would have been killed by a flash of hate. He was vaguely uneasy; he knew not what about. ” Lucy relied.
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