She rose, paid her bill, and turned westwards. 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. Hearing a noise below, Quilt called out, supposing it occasioned by the Jew. Gerald smiled and crooked his elbow. “It does not appear to me,” he said, stiffly, “to be an affair for jests.
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