She saw, twenty yards down the platform, the shiny hat and broad back and inimitable swagger of Ramage. She was the type that people of every age gravitated to, naturally affable and kind to everyone. The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. She had never seen her sitting on tables nor heard her discussing theology, and had failed to observe that the graceful figure was a natural one and not due to ably chosen stays.
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