"I am expected, I find," observed Jack, glancing at the well-covered board. 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. Oh, yes; of Ruth herself he knew much; but the more he mulled over what he knew, the deeper grew his chagrin. The freezing water reached her chin and she felt the heat of her body dispersing, creating a disappearing patch of warmth as her limbs froze. Terror had laid a paralyzing hand upon her, fear kept her almost unconscious of the curious glances which she was continually attracting. She loved to walk through the gardens, graced with columns that loomed overhead. "What poet was that?" "Stevenson. There came a wild rush of anthropological lore into her brain, a flare of indecorous humor.
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