But his glance roved, to the door through which Ruth had gone, to Enschede's drooping back. She turned about, and was persecuted by visions, half memories, half dreams, of Ramage. ‘How so?’ he asked, and she noted that he allowed his pistol to dangle a little from his fingers. But I’m thinking as how I’d best report to the major over this here shooting. She would be healthy, too, and vigorous. The light would betray us.
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