Her secret thoughts made some hasty, half-hearted excursions into the possibility of telling the thing in romantic tones—Ramage was as a black villain, she as a white, fantastically white, maiden. I am ready to wait for you, to wait your pleasure, to give all my life to winning it. Will you come sensibly, or shall I carry you? You are mine!" Ruth's peculiar education had not vitiated the primitive senses; they were always on guard; and in a moment such as this they rushed instantly to the surface. The chance it is the same for both. Gerald lost his head. They were now in a sort of cellar, at one end of which was a door.
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