The aunt rushed over to her nephew, knelt and wrapped him in her arms. She saw, twenty yards down the platform, the shiny hat and broad back and inimitable swagger of Ramage. The thousand voices which a few moments before had been so clamorous were now hushed. Ruth crossed over to the dramatist of this tragicomedy and put a hand on his shoulder. The Return. It doesn’t matter. The room behind was another small antechamber, presumably linking the back rooms. No matter how swiftly he pursued this riddle, he could not bring it to a halt. Think, ma’am. "Your father—poor imbecile!—believes we ran away together. Overjoyed beyond measure at having vanquished this apparently-insurmountable obstacle, Jack darted through the door. Shoplatch. " Ruth laughed.
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