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. “I detest amateurs. When younger, and in better health, she must have been eminently lovely; and there were still the remains of great beauty about her. It was so hopeless to put it to them. She would never, never go back. I want you to be my wife. 167 “True love is forever, isn’t it?” It was something a child would say, a phrase she had seen scratched on bathroom walls and maple trees, but it made her sad.
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