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The lighting-up pierced the obscurity of the box, and Ramage stopped his urgent flow of words abruptly and sat back. The girl stood with her hands behind her back, sulky, resolute, and intelligent, a strand of her black hair over one eye and looking more than usually delicate-featured, and more than ever like an obdurate child. Darting to a window looking in that direction, Thames threw it up, and discharged both his pistols, but without effect. "O Massa Ireton! Massa Wild!" ejaculated Caliban, "Shack Sheppart gone!" "Gone? you black devil!—Gone?" cried Ireton. She was lamentably without comparisons; such few young men as she had seen—white men—had been on the beach, pitiful and terrible objects. He was tall and straight, and his expression was good. She had trouble outwitting him as he seemed to predict her words before he said them. She was writhing to get her hands loose and found herself gasping with passionate violence, “It’s damnable!—damnable!” to the manifest disgust of the fatherly policeman on her right.
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