I struck him across the face, twisted the steering wheel of the motor, sprang out myself, and left him for dead on the road with the motor on top of him. He would know the truth then once and for all. 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. She addressed an envelope to Ramage, and scrawled on a half-sheet of paper, “The rest shall follow.
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