If hate could kill, Ramage would have been killed by a flash of hate. “Hello, John. It was his redemption, his ticket out of hell—that blue-serge coat. "Do you know anything further of Sir Rowland?" he asked. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. He would condemn her to the vengeance of the mob all for refusing to marry him. “So you’d best open your coffers. He had, however, planned brilliant careers for his two sons, and, with a certain human amount of warping and delay, they were pursuing these.
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