I suppose I believe in God. You cannot care for her. 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. Nothing shall induce me to act contrary to the dictates of my conscience. Mike was drinking a cup of black coffee. That’s my advice to you. She tried to appear as if she had never been questioned before. And my word's law—with you, at least," she added, bestowing a cutting glance upon her husband.
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