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. Some shadow of reserve seemed to have crept up between them. On the orders of Mr Jarvis, that were. She felt terribly modern, even sporty as the magazines declared you should be. She had even confided to him how lonely it was in the island. She had made her first fight for dignity and freedom as a grown-up and independent Person, and this was how the universe had treated her. I was mean to him. She let him take off her skirt as she ritualistically removed his jeans along with his boxers.
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