“It’s unforgivable of me to call, Miss Stanley,” he said, shaking hands in a peculiar, high, fashionable manner; “but you know you said we might be friends. He was certain that those lips of hers had never known the natural and pardonable simper of youth. He was confounded by the presence in which he found himself. “There is some one else whom I care for!” He laughed hardly. They had not to tarry long. 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. Her features were meagre, and ghastly white, and had the fixed and horrible stamp of insanity.
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