Then Ramage appeared with effusion, and ushered her into his inner apartment. She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town. No umbrella either, the sky was delightfully overcast. She could not judge its direction, and began to move swiftly along the bookshelves, her hand running behind her across the spines of the calfbound volumes. She stood looking down upon him with dilated eyes.
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