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. “It’s odd—I have no doubt in my mind that what we are doing is wrong,” he said. She could run away from him, if she wished, as she had run away from her father; she could carry out the original adventure.
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