Yet she never once thought of changing it. She had been in the drawing-room for a few minutes before the gong had sounded, and had chattered gaily to every one. 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. ‘Even the nuns they say I am like a devil.
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