Ramage controlled his expression and thought very quickly. Probably the latter, for the thronging ballroom was insufferably hot. Until that moment, Jarvis had imagined the child to be safe in the wet-nurse’s cottage. In the twilight he had ceased to be a person one could tackle and shame; he had become something more general, a something that crawled and sneaked toward her and would not let her alone. “Won’t you have some more tea, Mr. “Is that not rather a profitless speculation, my friend?” He seemed deaf to her interruption. ‘One of your countrymen, perhaps?’ The girl clammed up, the moon of her white face staring up at him in the darkness.
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