He had a wild impulse to shout. Did she suppose him a possible pretender to her daughter’s hand? The girl—Dorothée, if memory served—was clearly marriageable, but he imagined most of these unhappy exiles were all but penniless. “Violence won’t do it,” said Ann Veronica. She crouched beneath a stump, her extremities twitching as the sun set orange and blue beyond the lace of iron-black trees. Ramage leaned over the gate at Ann Veronica’s side, and for a moment there was silence. After the dance, they went to a party.
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