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. Not a word passed between them. Humph. But Gosse began to drag her towards the door. She was aware of him—a silk-hatted, shiny-black figure on the opposite side of the Avenue; and then, abruptly and startlingly, he crossed the road and saluted and spoke to her. I hope I haven't given any unintentional offence?" said the widow, again meekly appealing to Wood.
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