“Why are you so distant? Why all the mystery? What are you, a narc? Double-oh-seven or something?” She steeled herself, refusing to react. These sweeping dignities were not within the compass of her will; she remembered she liked Ramage, and owed things to him, and she was interested—she was profoundly interested. '—'Oh! yes we are,' says he. Were I to let you go, you'd say I feared you. "We're all damaged—we've all got broken pates," cried a dozen voices. ” She stood up and held her arms toward him. But she had not reckoned with the etiquette of Canongate.
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