But a middle-aged man like Ramage ought to know better than to draw out a girl, the daughter of a friend and neighbor. “If I had three hands,” she said, with a faint smile, “I would give one to each of you. Let’s go. And it’s like the petals falling from a flower. Unlocking several doors, he came to a dark vault, that would have rivalled the gloomiest cell in Newgate, into which he thrust Thames, and fastened the door. Away off in the fields the bluesmocked peasants bent still at their toil.
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