Automatically, she glanced at the slight red graze left on her neck that marked the point where Gerald’s sword had nicked her. ’ Gerald controlled a quivering lip. Perhaps he had heard of this Enschede. 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.
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