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. It was my destiny to have her. But the free arm of the stranger hit him a flail-like blow on the chest and sent him sprawling into the yielding sand. Afraid there'll be a love-affair. Her faithful servant struggled, with her assistance, to rise. " "I know not how to act," exclaimed Jack, almost driven to desperation. " He held out his dry hard hand into which she placed hers.
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