Ennison too, always handsome and debonnair, seemed transported out of his calm self. ‘He had run away with a Frenchwoman, you see, but Everett Charvill—I refer to the general—took care to conceal the matter. "Why did I want it under my pillow?" he asked. She saw herself begin a slow, sinuous dance: and stop suddenly in the middle of a figure, conscious that the dance was not impromptu, her own, but native—the same dance she had quitted but a few minutes gone. If hate could kill, Ramage would have been killed by a flash of hate.
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