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Ramage,” she said, “I can’t—Not now. There was a brief pause, a crowded pause, between them. There was a stain of wine upon her dress. But in a little while you will awake; and if there is a spark of manhood in you, you will be horrified at this day's work. A lean young man in spectacles pursued her for some time, crying “Courage! Courage!” Somebody threw a dab of mud at her, and some of it got down her neck. Gerald shook his head. She saw, twenty yards down the platform, the shiny hat and broad back and inimitable swagger of Ramage. Happy Thanksgiving.
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