She would just have to show up and hope for the best. The silence grew unbearable, so she asked, \"What is your surname, John?\" \"My surname? You mean my last name?\" \"Yes. But a middle-aged man like Ramage ought to know better than to draw out a girl, the daughter of a friend and neighbor. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story.
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