Luckily, she was bereft of consciousness, and was thus spared the additional misery of witnessing what afterwards befell him. “I was sick of the make-believe. Ramage’s bitterness passed as abruptly as his aggression. Whatever happened she need never return to that possibility. But how long would she last, withering away to a desiccated pile of skin and bone? Round and round she would go. Perhaps her odd beauty—and that too was natural—stirred these thoughts into being. Nevertheless, she was no fool, and she knew that they could easily break loose and cause her to fall. Wood did think of it, and groaned aloud.
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