“Not like it’s your fault if you wake up one day and decide you hanker for a nice piece of ass, a ten-minute tumble. The other kicked over the traces a bit, made rather a hit with her singing at some of those French places, and went the pace in a mild, ladylike sort of way. Not a word was uttered by the assemblage; but a hush of expectation reigned throughout. The lighting-up pierced the obscurity of the box, and Ramage stopped his urgent flow of words abruptly and sat back. “Go to the far corner,” he said, “and sing the last verse of Les Petites. She really must not go to that affair. A strong coarse man, and there were things in his eyes which made my blood run cold with terror. To her mind, recalling the picture of him the night before, there had been something tragic in the grim silent manner of his tippling.
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