He was smiling under his heavy mustache, and his head was a little on one side as he looked at 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. It ran in rivulets down her face, penetrating her hood and the thick quilting of her coat. But whither The Tigress was bound or who the owner was lay beyond the reach of Ah Cum's deductions.
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