" With no little effort—for the right words had a way of tumbling back out of reach—he marshalled his phrases, and as he uttered them, closed his eyes to lessen the possibility of a break. He seemed so clean anyway, his fair 215 skin, his light brown hair, there almost seemed to be no point. She was a trained being—trained by an implacable mother to one end. It was a gray day in the spring of 1910. He was no Hoddy, but a tremendous man, with hairy arms and bearded face and drink-shattered intellect. Ramage.
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