’ ‘Ah, but there’s the little matter of your presence here,’ said Gerald on a note of apology. It was a port of call, since fortnightly a British mail-boat dropped her mudhook in the bay. My mother really wants to meet you. He declined to come in. 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. His head turned sideways towards the noise, his brows scowling.
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