He seemed to have shrunken in his seat. She slipped down the perfunctory flight of stairs, short because of the home’s split-level style. He had not taken many steps when he perceived Quilt Arnold in the upper gallery, with a lamp in his hand. Will you let me go out of this room?” “No,” cried Ramage; “hear me out! I’ll have that satisfaction, anyhow. And if she is not a nun, nor a refugee, and yet is entirely English, I’m hanged if I know what she is. And Mother trusted him.
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