. His lovely black eyes softened until they became like languid as the night sky. Because of the Dance. Above her head was an aura of white fire. Trodger was lying in wait at the bottom of the narrow stairs. 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. "I am," replied Jonathan, following him, "and so," he added in an undertone, "are your captors.
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