" "You won't complain of the delay when I tell you what I've done," answered Jack. If hate could kill, Ramage would have been killed by a flash of hate. Here, indeed, was a type with which he had never until now come into contact—a natural woman. Her birthday was four months away, and that, at its extremist point, might give her another five pounds. "I've lost my wager. “We’ll go together. ‘No, I do not go back. Away up on the hillside was the little country railway station. She hadn't measured up; she had been stupid; she hadn't known how to make love.
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