If hate could kill, Ramage would have been killed by a flash of hate. The same look she had often seen in the eyes of the drunken beachcombers her father had brought home, and it had not filled her with horror. "Call me Hoddy. While I am talking about your friends, I feel—I think you ought to know how I look at it. ” He threw the stone protecting the crypt to one side. She’s got a great imagination.
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