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. He was sickeningly aroused by their hands as he slipped in and out of consciousness. "Where can I hide myself?" he added, glancing round the room in search of a closet. For a moment he did not recognize Annabel. Her disapproval was obvious enough. "I've got to see him; but I'll be reasonable. We have both tried hard to develop it—you and I —and we have failed.
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