I hear the sound of his horse's feet in the yard. “This is my way back to my side of the Park,” she said. I would not have him know—now—for the world. Art was everywhere, underfoot in the form of mosaics, overhead in the form of architecture. Ramage pursed his rather loose lips and shrugged his shoulders, with his eyes fixed steadily upon her. ‘I am perfectly devoted to him, as well he knows.
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