The houses overhung in a frightful manner, and looked as if the next gust would precipitate them into the river. “You hear him?” he remarked, looking impressively around. He had seldom been more perturbed. This door, which was open, Jonathan locked and took out the key. 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. “I was glad you did not send it back again,” he said. “You could have told me about it, Michelle.
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