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. ‘And I trust you will pardon my inadequacies. “Put her in the trunk. I must apologize, I suppose, for speaking to you, but your appearance certainly indicated that you were in some sort of trouble, and you were becoming—pardon me—an object of comment to the passers-by. The walls are too high, and the windows too stoutly barricaded in this quarter, to admit such a supposition. Ireton; for may I be hanged myself if I don't believe he'll be as good as his word. “You must do more than think of it,” he urged.
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