He felt hands tugging at him, mysterious creatures with long fingers and sharp nails that pulled at his flesh. "Suppose we go and have tea? I'd like to take you to a teahouse I know, but we'll go to the Victoria instead. She had found that proof. 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.
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