‘Oh no, you don’t,’ said Gerald in a low tone. Sheppard, fervently. There were two. She pulled him towards the bed. ‘Now what?’ The girl’s voice was shaking, and there were, he saw now, angry tears in her eyes. Let's go up and see how the patient is doing. She pointed suddenly at the portrait. 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. “You poor little girl!” he cried.
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