” Ann Veronica for some indefinable reason did not want to lunch with him, a reason indeed so indefinable that she dismissed it, and Ramage went through the outer office with her, alert and attentive, to the vivid interest of the three clerks. It was a copy of the pencil sketch taken of him nine years ago by Winifred, and awakened a thousand tender recollections. “How’d you know it was me?” He looked conspiratorially into the room for hidden informants. No, don’t let me call myself that. Drummond was telling me about the way old Ferringhall rounded upon them all at the club. She was consumed by misery and hate. She realized dimly that there was no personal thing behind his cry, that countless myriads of Mannings had “My God!”-ed with an equal gusto at situations as flatly apprehended. The light disappeared.
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