It was now whitening, hissing, and seething like an enormous cauldron. Wood. But a middle-aged man like Ramage ought to know better than to draw out a girl, the daughter of a friend and neighbor. It slipped out—as did that “she”. It now came to him with an added thrill how well she had told her story; simply and directly, no skipping, no wandering hither and yon: from the first hour she could remember, to the night she had fled in the proa, a clear sustained narrative. My foster mother, Janine, wasn’t much fatter.
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