On examination it proved to be a flat bar of iron, nearly a yard in length, and more than an inch square. " "Impossible, Sir," replied Ireton, greatly alarmed. His mouth was sensuous but his eyes became frenetic. The lady reseated herself, watching him expectantly. 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. Half French.
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