” Michelle sat in a yogi’s posture on the cold plywood, her eyes closed as if meditating. Then she looked up at Brendon. Mind, I, Baptist Kettleby, say so. She saw, twenty yards down the platform, the shiny hat and broad back and inimitable swagger of Ramage. He would never be able to figure out that: all these miles from Cuba, and you could get a perfecto for thirteen cents. But I had to know for sure.
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