“Agreed,” he said, “certainly,” and drew a checkbook toward him. Don’t you think? Tum, tay, tum, tay. ‘Silence,’ he warned again, with a prod of the dagger at her heart. These cogitations were interrupted by the entrance of the doctor. 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. “I don’t see what else I could have said,” he remarked.
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