She had never thought of him at all in that way before. For a time she could scarcely believe he was gone. That was the Frenchie, Valade, surely. “Do all foster kids have the instinct?” Michelle asked naively. Arrived in the plantation she sat down with her back against a tree trunk. 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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