She turned about, and was persecuted by visions, half memories, half dreams, of Ramage. He devoured her with his eyes too, his shyness not able to disguise his furtive glances at the curvy outline of her breast against the imitation silk, his memory still exquisitely tortured by her movements in the miniskirt. Ruth stared thoughtfully at the waiting coolies. I sha’n’t care a rap if we can never marry. Men do not understand constancy as women do. It was the size of my palm.
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