She feared he might take her tears as a sign of weakness. 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. “Thanks, I’m not very fond of coffee,” Anna answered, “and I hate music. Crossing them, he ascended an eminence, which, from its singular shape, seems to have been the site of a Roman encampment, and which commands a magnificent prospect. ’ ‘I still think you ought to have waited, miss.
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