These sweeping dignities were not within the compass of her will; she remembered she liked Ramage, and owed things to him, and she was interested—she was profoundly interested. She wore a plain black dress, reaching almost to her throat—her small oval face, with the large brown eyes, was colourless, delicately expressive, yet with something mysterious in its Sphinx-like immobility. “What a gloomy person you are!” she murmured. She doubted how she stood toward him and what the restrained gleam of his face might signify. You could not have aided and assisted us more effectively by trying to drown yourself in the sea. “How are you, Lucy?” Martin ran to catch her in the crowded hall.
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