‘And I’d like to know what the devil—’ ‘Out of town?’ repeated Melusine, stupefied. ‘We will converse in your own tongue,’ he said in French as he led her away. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. You’re dealing with me now, not Gerald. Ramage. He proceeded to the deck, where Ruth and McClintock were waiting for him by the ladder.
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