Tell Bess to slip out, and I'll put on her cloak and hood. ‘You cannot mean General Charvill?’ ‘That old martinet?’ exclaimed Roding. The City worried him a good deal, and what energy he had left over he spent partly in golf, a game he treated very seriously, and partly in the practices of microscopic petrography. 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.
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