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 was a serene and charming evening, and twilight was gently stealing over the face of the country. The hand which the man had been holding hung limp and nerveless at her side. “Tell me,” she insisted, “why you look like that. "Is it you?" "It is," replied Sheppard, as he untied the cords.
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