She saw, twenty yards down the platform, the shiny hat and broad back and inimitable swagger of Ramage. He growled in his throat and, thrusting his coat open, revealed his own buckled sword-belt. She threw him his car keys. Without a word or a gesture, the Wastrel turned and staggered forth, out of the orbit of these two, having been thrust into it for a single purpose already described. They showered together. ’ ‘That is what you think? Let us try!’ ‘Don’t be idiotic!’ She was backing from him, reaching through one of the slits she had carefully manufactured in her petticoat.
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