Looked all over that dratted convent of yours—or at least Trodger and the men did so—but no sign of them. As she hoisted her skirts near her waist, she thought ruefully of the last time she had worn such an elaborate gown, sometime near 1910 when petticoats were still considered hip everyday garb. Ramage looked at her for a long and discriminating interval without speaking. She closed her eyes and felt again an echo of the swamping warmth that had attacked her when his lips met hers. She had even confided to him how lonely it was in the island.
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