It did seem in so many ways exactly what Ramage said it was—the sensible thing to do. She had a horrible glimpse of the once nice little old lady being also borne stationward, still faintly battling and very muddy—one lock of grayish hair straggling over her neck, her face scared, white, but triumphant. There are certain smells, certain tinges to the air. She had behaved in every way perfectly.
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