She saw, twenty yards down the platform, the shiny hat and broad back and inimitable swagger of Ramage. The whole place had come to life, the magic seeped out of the walls. He knew me, Nigel. Ashen blonde, a shade that would never excite the cynical commentary which men applied to certain types of blondes. We were fellow passengers from Charing Cross, and we have been fellow lodgers in the Rue d’Entrepot.
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