“How’d you know it was me?” He looked conspiratorially into the room for hidden informants. She looked at him mournfully. She thought of how much she wanted to eat the foods she had once feasted on that now smelled as innocuous as spring flowers. I’d need to be out of my senses. And at the thought of that other lover—he was convinced that that beloved person was a lover, and she found herself unable to say a word to explain to him that this other person, the person she loved, did not even know of her love—Ramage grew angry and savage once more, and returned suddenly to gibe and insult. He walked through the misty September night to his rooms.
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