It was time to disappear, no more Becks, no more Spaghetti Nights, no more afternoon kisses in the park with John Diedermayer. 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. The gallant woollen-draper was now in his thirty-sixth year. "Once there," proceeded Wild, without noticing the interruption, "he's as good as in his grave.
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