Ramage, that iron-gray man of the world, appeared dressed in a bowler hat and a suit of hard gray, astride of a black horse. ’ Gerald’s jaw tightened. Edgeworth Bess wore a scarlet tabby negligée,—a sort of undress, or sack, then much in vogue,—which suited her to admiration, and upon her head had what was called a fly-cap, with richly-laced lappets. Moving back to the corner again, she ran a hand back over the leather-bound books—which, she realised, were not books at all. They either ran to see or ran for shelter. Joe, my foster dad, was a heroin and booze addict.
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