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. Here he found another strong door, making the fifth he had encountered. He had got here at speed by that means. His pulses beat fast as he walked, his feet fell lightly upon the pavement. She had looked up from her seat at the small round table in the centre of the parlour which, together with the wooden armchairs beside the small fireplace, and a sideboard next the single casement, was all the furniture the place afforded. ” “As you will, dear lover.
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