There was a discreet knocking at the door, and Ramage’s face changed. “I’m sorry! Mary! Are you hurt?” “No. Why? Love was a word of God's, and yet her father had denied it—denied it to the Book, denied it to his own flesh and blood. A few yards further off something grey, inert, was lying, a huddled-up heap of humanity twisted into a strange unnatural shape. Nowhere could he see that reaching, menacing Hand. I have had a good many desperate engagements in my time, and have generally come off victorious. There was something markedly and deliberately liberal-minded in his manner in all their encounters.
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