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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. “I had no idea that it was so abominably late. But at last this ordeal was over, and Ramage opened the door. Away in London even now Capes was packing and preparing; Capes, the magic man whose touch turned one to trembling fire. “This,” he said, and then: “No! Is this sweeter? Very well.
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