To Spurlock's observing eye, Enschede's wrinkles multiplied and the folds in his clothes. His cheeks were puffy, and his eyes blood-shot. And then she would find work. 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. He glanced downwards at the impetuous torrent, which he could perceive shooting past him with lightning swiftness in the gloom. It was a shame that they had made such a fuss, she thought as he arrived.
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