‘At me,’ she uttered, holding her own pistol high and aiming it steadily. She turned about, and was persecuted by visions, half memories, half dreams, of Ramage. “How have you been, my dear? Up to no good, I see. Send you the shirt. He smiled. I shall still wear your favor—even if it is a stolen and forbidden favor—in my casque. The manservant shall bring your trunks in and pay the fare too, if you like.
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