He stole his chance and thrust his hand towards hers. The Master listened, with becoming attention, to the narrative, and, at its conclusion, shook his head gravely, applied his thumb to the side of his nose, and, twirling his fingers significantly, winked at his phlegmatic companion. She did not have to investigate that his door was locked. If she had any idea at all, it was something she dimly recalled from her books: something celestially beautiful, with a happy ending. His fingers closed upon her hand. Then, as Ramage readjusted himself in a corner, he remarked: “These young people shoot up, Stanley. He was reaching wearily for some kind of buffer to his harrying conscience. Can’t ask the gent to go abroad and condone a bigamy. We looked upon you, my dear Sir John, with reverence, almost with awe.
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