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. Above the work-table was a drop-light—kerosene. “Or I wouldn’t have said anything about it. With your permission, I will go on in my own way. He even hugged her a few times, something he had never done. For so far she had kept it uncashed. Anna leaned over so that he needed only to whisper.
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