Voices floated down, but there was no sound of pursuit. Very dark, like yours, ma’am. 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. Was he planning on spending more time with her once in the country? The streets choked with beggars and the dying. Nothing but the constraint of social usage now linked him to her.
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