The lighting-up pierced the obscurity of the box, and Ramage stopped his urgent flow of words abruptly and sat back. Very quietly, he added, “Oh Lucia, I’m sorry. It was at his side below the breast, hidden by the dark colour of his close-fitting jacket. But when all was over, a sorrowful calm succeeded, and, if not free from grief, she was tranquil. Kneebone, who had drained his glass to the restoration of the house of Stuart, and the downfall of the house of Hanover, more frequently than was consistent with prudence, consented; and the trio set out for Wych Street, where they arrived in the jolliest humour possible. I guess those books are okay because they are fiction.
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