“If I were to marry now,” she said, “it would be with a sense of humiliation. A ragged gray moustache drooped from the corners of his mouth and a ragged wisp of whisker hung from his chin. She wanted air—and the distraction of having moving and changing things about her. 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.
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