She had made her way since then a little further into the heart of life. It was her figure, her style of dress, her manner of arranging the hair. Wood heard the cry. “Perhaps,” he queried, “you wish to avoid being seen about with any one—er— connected with the profession, under present circumstances. "What in the world is it?" he asked. After what seemed like an eternity he turned right onto a dirt road that ended unceremoniously at a copse of leafless trees. She turned about, and was persecuted by visions, half memories, half dreams, of Ramage. She stared out of the paned glass window, watching the trees being blown bare by the gale force.
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