But was that enough? Dim, formless suspicions of something more vital wandered about his mind. Beauty doesn’t mean, never has meant, anything—anything at all but you. Stanley almost liked Ramage. In the little apartment, under the gas chandelier, his inches and his stoop were certainly very effective. He taught her about crowds, which men were the evilest, how to locate and dispose society’s garbage. “John?” He turned around in the recliner.
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