Wood hadn't struck me. She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. She came very near that night to resolving that she would return to her home next morning. “Dear friend,” she said, “do not magnify me into a physiological problem. "Most persons would have guessed my meaning. The skipper obeyed, and in another moment, they swept through the narrow lock. Ramage,” she said, “I can’t—Not now. She had to resist an impulse of sheer terror, to run out after them and give in. He died in the war.
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