But a middle-aged man like Ramage ought to know better than to draw out a girl, the daughter of a friend and neighbor. “I don’t think she will,” she said. Nothing at all. She began at once a hasty readjustment of her hair, while Ramage parleyed with inaudible interrogations. He had grabbed a tiny remote control and flew the thing around the table, landing it there and turning it off. Mild, you know, and boon. Only her ungloved fingers, and the arms in their long tight sleeves as she held the heavy gun aloft, bore any sign of stiffness. “What do you mean?” she asked.
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