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. "What do you want?" he asked, in a gruff voice. There were words, then, that ran on indefinitely, with reversals? Here they meant one thing; there, the exact opposite. In worldly matters Gay was not fortunate. Her figure was perfect,—tall, graceful, rounded,—and, then, she had deep liquid blue eyes, that rivalled the stars in lustre. She could not see any relief from this anxiety except repayment, and repayment seemed impossible.
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