The poet's appearance altogether was highly prepossessing. Coldly she spoke, in a distinctly accented voice. Capes was an exceptionally fair man of two or three-and-thirty, so ruddily blond that it was a mercy he had escaped light eyelashes, and with a minor but by no means contemptible reputation of his own. Blackness was beginning to consume the cornfield. And, in addition, she was now seeing and talking to Ramage almost weekly, on a theory which she took very gravely, that they were exceptionally friends. It had her raven locks, her pouting lips. Later on—well then the time may come. But if he speaks—I fear what he may tell. All through that brief but measureless space of time during which wonder kept him silent, as fear did her, she cowered there, a limp helpless object. She's fine. She ran down alleyways and between buildings, faster than an Olympian, until she could hear his voice no more.
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