His was the Latin turn of thinking; he had fallen in love at thirteen, and he was still capable—he prided himself—of falling in love. "Joan! Joan!" vociferated he, "open the door, for God's sake, or I shall be murdered, and so will your babby! Open the door quickly, I say. She had not seen Ramage for ten or eleven days, and she was quite ready for a gossip with him. But the figure was evidently too intent on peering within the ballroom to pay any attention to what might be occurring outside. Then she would be dead, and that was no use.
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