But they did not know how good she was, how perfect she was. She would always be going to and fro up the Avenue, getting glimpses of Ramage, seeing him in trains. She thought study would be better. He devoured her with his eyes too, his shyness not able to disguise his furtive glances at the curvy outline of her breast against the imitation silk, his memory still exquisitely tortured by her movements in the miniskirt. It’s a sort of home-leaving instinct.
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