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. "I will be there at the time. “Poor Lucy!” Cathy exclaimed as she rushed in the door, umbrella sheathed. “Listen to me. Except for a few early ebullitions of passion, natural to a warm and romantic disposition, and leaving no harmful after-effects—ebullitions that by the standards of the higher truth I feel no one can justly cast a stone at, and of which I for one am by no means ashamed—I come to you a pure and unencumbered man. Loneliness—something that was almost physical: as if the vitality had been taken out of the air she breathed. “A move of any sort would certainly be fatal. This I have sworn to do—this I will do.
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