’ She shuddered, throwing her hands over her face. The carpet was a quiet drugget and not excessively worn, and the bed in the corner was covered by a white quilt. Mr. 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. ‘Nothing would do for her but to come here,’ grumbled Hilary, wiping his heated brow with a pocket handkerchief dragged from his immaculate white uniform breeches. He rested his brow on his hand and conveyed magnificent tragedy by his pose.
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