But she could not live in constant association with him without having these gaps filled. There must be something, one feels, in ideas that achieve persistently a successful resurrection. She lifted her shoulders in an eloquent shrug. Instinctively she imitated this action, chilled and a little frightened at the expression of terror that confronted her. Roused by the bell tolling for evening service, Jack left the house. For now, I fear there is something worse, something more present. It was his redemption, his ticket out of hell—that blue-serge coat. She turned about, and was persecuted by visions, half memories, half dreams, of Ramage.
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