She had just passed into a little antechamber beyond when she suddenly heard a faint knocking. She thought of him as always courteous and helpful, as realizing, indeed, his ideal of protection and service, as chivalrously leaving her free to live her own life, rejoicing with an infinite generosity in every detail of her irresponsive being. 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. There was a little murmur of consternation from the waiting crowd, and the florid young woman showed signs of temper, to which Mr. But he had always felt (he had never allowed himself to think of it) that the promptitude of their family was a little indelicate of her, and in a sense an intrusion. Michelle looked at their reflections in the wall mirror. Funk! I’ll see it out.
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