Gazing into each other's eyes with new-found rapture, neither observed the sudden appearance in the doorway of an elderly woman in travel-stained linen. Spurlock dove headlong at the other's legs, toppling the man. It ran in rivulets down her face, penetrating her hood and the thick quilting of her coat. Ramage seemed always fencing about the forbidden topic, probing for openings, and she wondered why she did not give him them. She recognized the cloth at once, waylaid him, and with that directness of speech particularly hers she explained what she wanted. That, I think, is manifest. "I am no murderer," replied Sheppard.
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