She crawled underneath the soft white sheets, reclining and pulling the blankets up to her chin. She stared at him and thought the words, “My husband, my husband. ” Marina would drawl, Lucy invoking her mother’s face as the image of the beautiful but cruel princess Anoush. 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. He looked from the sword to the dagger with which he had brought her down here, and grimaced.
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