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. The curve of his shoulders, the very angle of his feet, expressed relief at her apparent obedience. He saw the expression on the girl's face and understood what it signified, that it was the reflected pattern of his own. “Further than that, I am amazed that you should dare to allude to those few moments, to that single moment of folly. “Now, there, there. He might go on as the devoted lover until he tired. In the rush of commuters he did not see her boarding his train.
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