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. She was not afraid of violence, but she was afraid of something mean, some secondary kind of force. And if she was ever found living in the area like that, homeless, John could somehow find out. She let them fall and sped to the companion, where she stood for a moment, the moonlight giving her a celestial touch. .
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