“How can you know?” “I think—perhaps I am rather a cold-blooded person. " "Wood's daughter, I suppose?" observed the other. Both husband and wife affected an unnatural ease of manner for the benefit of the efficient parlor-maid, who was putting the finishing touches to the sideboard arrangements. "Is your master at home?" inquired the jailer. I suppose that’s the gist of the whole thing. Her fingers passed over a cunningly wrought surface of wood, with just the correct amount of protrusion, the precise colours of dyed leather, and cleverly gilded surfaces and neatly painted lettering. I am not a madman, or a pauper, or even an unreasonable person. 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.
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