’ ‘I would have done, only you threatened to blow off my head,’ Gerald reminded her, laughing. There were no doors in the bungalow; instead, there were curtains of strung bead and bamboo, always tinkling mysteriously. 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. Nobody will ever know what the fleas thought. She had but to choose. It'll be your own fault if you don't soon get another and a proper young man into the bargain. ‘The man’s gone,’ her old nurse told her, when she had recovered a little. I could not love you else.
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