“You see, father,” she said, “it isn’t only this affair of the dance. 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. Once, when he thought he had done so, he smiled an ingratiating smile. So get up, and let's be off. "I could almost forgive the wretch the injury he did me in depriving me of my poor dear wife—No, not quite that," he added, a little confused.
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