‘How so?’ he asked, and she noted that he allowed his pistol to dangle a little from his fingers. A deep dread calm, like that which precedes a thunderstorm, now prevailed amongst the assemblage. Ramage seemed always fencing about the forbidden topic, probing for openings, and she wondered why she did not give him them. Lucy felt herself go very red in the cheeks and lowered her hand rather slowly. We’ll go. Take, if you please, your own pistol. He forgot for the moment his own self-pity, the egotism of his own passionate love.
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