Men were going hither and thither with barrows, and ladders and ropes, removing the rubbish, and trying to support the tottering habitations. It was an odd room, used principally for the reception of guests and visiting dignitaries, packed from end to end with ill-assorted sofas and padded chairs. Ramage pursed his rather loose lips and shrugged his shoulders, with his eyes fixed steadily upon her. ‘What in God’s name do you think you’re playing at?’ ‘Let me alone, man,’ Gerald muttered under his breath. He died in the war. If you were a poet in need of rhymes, you had only to turn to a certain page.
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