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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. How she had hated it!… All these mumblings which were never explained, which carried no more sense to her brain than they would have carried to Old Morgan's swearing parrot. Anyhow, there was some pleasurable satisfaction in knowing where the quarry would be for the next three weeks. A very familiar face emerged from a crowd at the impromptu bar on the kitchen island. A new restlessness seemed to have stolen in upon her. "It is time!" "For what?" grumbled the latter, rubbing his eyes. . At breakfast both of them played their parts skillfully.
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