" "Bring your story to an end, Sir," said Trenchard who had listened to the recital with mingled emotions of rage and fear. Her hair, once red, faded to a thin gray that she kept cut into a practical short bob. But here she met with a check. "Unless you have eaten a Syrian orange," he was always saying, "you have only a rudimentary idea of what an orange is. She wouldn't be able to pass by anywhere without folks turning their heads. 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 turned to her and pinned her against the headrest with his kisses. Would that a certain major might cast upon her such a look. I don’t play anything. I fight. I thought perhaps you were staying with them, as you did not seem particularly anxious to recognize your old friends.
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