He knew it absolutely, as if he had the check in his hand. If he died, here in this hotel, who would care? Or if she died, who would care? A queer desire blossomed in her heart: to go to him, urge him to see the folly of trying to forget. It’s an instinct. 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. Over the gateway towards Snow Hill, were two strong wards, called the Castle and the Red Room.
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