I know. I looked upon you from the first as the most promising of my pupils. I spent my fair share of time in the closet. “Mind my smoking?” said Roddy. 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. He—In fact, he—he locked me in my room. It did not seem quite fair.
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