We stepped from the Embassy into the motor—and oh! I thought that he was dead. The will to live had returned. ” The detective nodded. 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. Ray did not pace, he just stood. Indignation carried her through that night, that men and the world could so entreat her. ’ Gerald tutted. There’s something—puppyish in a man’s usual attitude to women.
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