I had to go at a moment’s notice. But it was clear she was in no mood for Teddys. 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 waited for an instant, wasting an encouraging smile in the imperfect light, and then shut the doors of the van, leaving the women in darkness. "Is this Misther Wudd's, my pretty miss?" demanded the rough voice of the Irish watchman.
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