“You are late,” she murmured. His mouth was sensuous but his eyes became frenetic. The sky was dripping a wet, slow rain that had forced the city’s inhabitants into taxicabs and dingy cafeterias, the day wholly ruined for all except the insane schizophrenics and her. Ramage, that iron-gray man of the world, appeared dressed in a bowler hat and a suit of hard gray, astride of a black horse. She bussed his cheek with her small lips as he stood by the open door, and exited alone towards the sleeping house.
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