He walked unsteadily towards the door. If hate could kill, Ramage would have been killed by a flash of hate. “You know,” he muttered, “you know quite well that your troubles are far more likely to weigh upon me than my own. Jack, whose clothes were covered with dust, and whose face was deathly pale from his recent exertion, looked more like a phantom than a living person. I’ll give you, say, thirty-five guineas a week clear of expenses, and half of anything you earn above the two turns a night. I can’t explain—” They regarded one another, each blinded to the other. Then she called a hansom and drove home. I don't know whose brainless head it may be, but it'll do for my collection.
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