His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. “Very much as usual,” said Ramage. Not once during the ceremony did the two look at each other, but riveted their gaze upon the lips of the man who was forging the bands: gazed intensively, as if they feared the world might vanish before the last word of the ceremony was spoken. "Is it gold?" "Pure gold," replied Kneebone. "I want you for the job I spoke of a short time ago, Nab," he said.
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