‘Precisely. The lighting-up pierced the obscurity of the box, and Ramage stopped his urgent flow of words abruptly and sat back. It was so hopeless to put it to them. ‘Don’t fob me off, boy. We are alone, Sir Rowland," he added, snuffing the candles, glancing cautiously around, and lowering his tone, "and what you confide to me shall never transpire,—at least to your disadvantage. The sound of her flying feet brought Gerald leaping for the door. Natives are queer. The comtesse always felt Madame Valade to be not of her class, of course.
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