He murmured his delight, and joined the bridge party, where he played with less than his accustomed skill. Mother? Suzanne Valade, her mother? With deliberation, he spoke. But a middle-aged man like Ramage ought to know better than to draw out a girl, the daughter of a friend and neighbor. There was no one to be seen in the great hall. ” “Why?” “If I were bad at it, you would be on your way to the hospital by now. “I’m damned if I’ll believe it,” he muttered to himself savagely. This employment seemed to afford him the highest satisfaction; for a diabolical grin—it cannot be called a smile—played upon his face all the time he was engaged in it.
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