He placed his chin upon the top of her head. Then he went on: “—and, indeed, to most of the established things in life is, frankly, unsatisfactory. " "And you married me, knowing?" "I married the man who bought a sing-song girl to give her her freedom. The season was ripe for mating, she thought to herself bitterly. Are you going to write a novel?” “Not I,” she answered gaily. 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.
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