His face was aquiline but sweet, the years had not yet taken the blush from his cheeks and his lips were similarly rubefacient. Glancing idly up at her own window as they had swung round the corner she had seen a strange thing. Gosse took a step or two towards the centre of the room. He reeled, and crashed to the floor. 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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