Chapter XXII AN OLD FOOL Lady Ferringhall made room for him on the sofa by her side. “Please don’t be sad. ’ At that, a flush drenched her cheeks and she snatched her hand away. She saw, twenty yards down the platform, the shiny hat and broad back and inimitable swagger of Ramage. She was aware of the body of the court, of clerks seated at a black table littered with papers, of policemen standing about stiffly with expressions of conscious integrity, and a murmuring background of the heads and shoulders of spectators close behind her.
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