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. Earles protested, seating himself before the desk, and dipping his pen in the ink. “I don’t see,” gasped Ann Veronica, “why parents and children. ‘That is what she wants, is it?’ ‘Do you blame her?’ he said stiffly. He hung precariously on the ragged edge, but he hung there. The beach: to get there as quickly as he could, to reach the white man's nadir of abasement and gather the promise of that soothing indifference which comes with the final disintegration of the fibres of conscience.
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