The girl stood with her hands behind her back, sulky, resolute, and intelligent, a strand of her black hair over one eye and looking more than usually delicate-featured, and more than ever like an obdurate child. ‘Whither away, mademoiselle?’ he said grimly, ungently grasping her arm above the elbow. It was Ramage, the occupant of the big house at the end of the Avenue. Or become a thorough-going typist and stenographer and secretarial expert. But I am afraid I am a shockingly obstinate and a very ungrateful person. He has a heart that is easily broken.
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