“Don’t know me, eh? I like that. 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. It was she who had come out from the flat only a few minutes before. It was then that the young man entered his thought with some permanency: because there was no apparent reason for his joining the tour, since from the beginning he had shown no interest in anything. She could not see any relief from this anxiety except repayment, and repayment seemed impossible. She made a few protests, a few excuses for her action in accepting him, a few lame explanations, but he did not heed them or care for them. Daughters were in the air that day.
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