” “It’s dreadful for you to be here,” he said, indicating the yellow presence of the first fog of the year without, “but your aunt told me something of what had happened. “We must go. Murder had become nothing to her. ’ She inclined her head, looking up at him through her lashes, and passing a tongue lightly over her lips. And now, when you come at last, you bring me this grandfather, and you dare to tell me I am like him. 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. He smiled.
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