“You Mr. Ramage pursed his rather loose lips and shrugged his shoulders, with his eyes fixed steadily upon her. She turned about, and was persecuted by visions, half memories, half dreams, of Ramage. The fatal shower, from which he and his little charge escaped uninjured, had stricken his assailant and precipitated him into the boiling gulf. He resolved to judge for himself. His gaze dropped to the black garment that covered her. He “went in” for microscopy in the unphilosophical Victorian manner as his “hobby. “I don’t see what else I could have said,” he remarked. When they were home, the pair headed for the Big Apple or the warmth of the Beck’s family table. “About my sister,” she repeated slowly.
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