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. I want to be your knight, your servant, your protector, your—I dare scarcely write the word—your husband. She paced restlessly to the door and back again, biting her tongue on the hot words begging to be uttered. I have read that authors are very selfish and self-centred. Wood was unable to discover the figure of the widow, but he recognised her dry, hacking cough, and was about to call her down, if she could not find the key, as he imagined must be the case, when a loud noise was heard, as though a chest, or some weighty substance, had fallen upon the floor. ” She turned her face to the fire, gripped her hands upon her elbows, and drew her thin shoulders together in a shrug.
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