She began to think persistently of Capes, and it seemed to her now that for some weeks at least she must have been thinking persistently of him unawares. God only knows what I have done, or left undone. 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. The weed was all right. ‘And now,’ he said, drawing Madame to the seat, and contriving to sit close enough that his anatomy touched hers at several points, ‘let us talk about you, madame. Sheppard, falling on her knees.
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