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. ’ She sniffed and swallowed. She was conscious of a ceaseless undercurrent of sound—the guttural Chinese tongue. The Ragged Edge. He filled the rôle of comrade which Spurlock dared not enact, at least not utterly as he would have liked. I should as soon think of trusting a woman.
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