I loved her beyond anything in heaven or on earth—to idolatry. The lighting-up pierced the obscurity of the box, and Ramage stopped his urgent flow of words abruptly and sat back. She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town. What right had she to call herself “Alcide”? It was abominable, an imposture. I shan't let you off a farthing.
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