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. Her head swam. “Okay, I guess. "I don't know what I think," Wood answered sulkily; and he bent his eyes upon the water, as if he wished to avert his attention forcibly from the scene. His face was wreathed in smiles, his beringed hand was cordially outstretched. ‘She hasn’t said so, but I presume Valade had got hold of all the useful papers,’ Gerald went on.
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