“It is a night of endings,” she murmured to herself. “You were talking to that fellow Ramage to-day—in the Avenue. Almost worthy of your own fertile imagination. 95 The officer showed her into the sleepy suburban police station, a hub of inactivity on Sunday night except for herself and a slightly drunk woman who had been brought in for DUI. Lady Ferringhall listened, and her cheeks grew pale. “Don’t!” she said, weakly, as he had bent down and put one arm about her and seized her hands with his disengaged hand and kissed her—kissed her almost upon her lips. ’ Her flesh crept.
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