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 was no longer certain that she desired an Englishman, if she must judge of one in particular. They were wed in Florence, in the grandest cathedral she had ever seen, the Santa Maria del Fiore. ’ ‘Don’t be a fool, woman,’ snapped Charvill, thrusting himself further into the room. " "Gem'men o' the votch!" cried Sharples, as loudly as a wheezy cough would permit him, "my noble pris'ner—ough! ough;—the Markis o' Slaughterford ——" Further speech was cut short by a volley of execrations from the angry guardians of the night.
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