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. She warmed to him fast, her anger was much harder to carry than the pleasant everyday neutrality of affection. She parted the curtains to find him standing there. The young lady with whom I was dining last night was Miss Anna Pellissier. It occurred to her that it was absurd and wrong to be so continuously thinking of one engrossing topic, and she made a strenuous effort to force her mind to other questions.
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