’ ‘Because I was a servant in the vicomte’s house? Things have changed. “I suppose,” said her father, “I have read at least half the novels that have been at all successful during the last twenty years. 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 made her my unwilling confederate. Hugging him in the beautiful dress in front of the teenagers was strangely soothing to her. She used his own gun against him, a method that was occasionally cleaner than slitting throats when she got it right.
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