’ ‘Ha! You’re Catholic, too, damn his eyes,’ growled the general. You wanted to play a lone hand. "Let me go," cried Winifred. 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 eyes, too, though large and bright, and shaded by long lashes, seemed to betoken, as hazel eyes generally do in men, a faithless and uncertain disposition.
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