I’ve always had a sneaking desire for the writing-trade. The call of youth to youth, and we name it love for want of something better: a glamorous, evanescent thing "like snow upon the desert's dusty face, lighting a little hour or two, was gone. Were I to let you go, you'd say I feared you. It was an odd little encounter, that left vague and dubitable impressions in her mind. He wouldn’t like it if people did it to him. He spent the evening telling her stories of Greece as she sat in front of a roaring fire. And at the sight something leaped within her. He couldn't be in better hands than those in which he has placed himself. She snapped out of her blissful state and looked at him squarely in the eyes. There was a discreet knocking at the door, and Ramage’s face changed.
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