The houses were older, the shops gloomier, and the thoroughfare narrower, it is true; but the bustle, the crowd, the street-like air was the same. 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. Her eyes were lit with smouldering passion. “I did it for love of you,” he said. If only this child were his: what good times they would have together! The thought passed on, but it left a little ache in his heart. Again the chalky pallor spread even to her lips, her eyes became lit with the old terror. What of Gosse, whom those soldiers had allowed to escape? Hiding—or perhaps gone. I want to put myself into your hands. “It’s something that bothers me. Capes—the ‘Capes crave,’ they would call it in America.
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