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. Perhaps it was loneliness. "I told you the prison wasn't built that could hold me," cried Jack. “Here we are,” he said, “shining through each other like light through a stained-glass window.
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