"That's a good story, lad. Oh, the beautiful books! Romance, adventure, love stories! She gathered up the books in her arms and cuddled them, as a mother might have cuddled a child. If I let you believe I did not love you, and they found me, your shame would be negligible. ” They stared at each other through a pause, and both faces were flushed and obstinate. “I cannot pretend that I am glad to see you, Lady Ferringhall,” he said quietly. “I just came to you and put myself in your hands. "Of yourself," he replied, in a mournful tone. "Otherwise you will not get your morning's sleep. "So did I," answered Jack; "we had better move on. ” “Nobody does that,” said Ramage, and kept silence for a moment. But he tells them that I am a spy. How she had hated it!… All these mumblings which were never explained, which carried no more sense to her brain than they would have carried to Old Morgan's swearing parrot.
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