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” “Did it hurt when we did it?” His voice rose, inflamed with worry. “My dear man,” she exclaimed, “wasn’t that a foregone conclusion?” “You treat the matter lightly,” he continued. But still you have told me of my real mother when I thought it was Suzanne Valade. I often think of those delightful evenings in Paris. Fritz sang for her sometimes, for Fritz could sing even before he was able to form words. There was a discreet knocking at the door, and Ramage’s face changed. She felt she must get him talking upon some impersonal theme at any cost.
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