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. One with the appearance of a bald little gnome yawned agonizingly. Other girls gathered around like sheep. For hours after she had not been sensible to life, only to exquisite echoes. There is not a soul in the inn but ourselves.
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