It was as if her finite human brain could only store a limit of information, details like hair color and fingernail shape easily jettisoned to make room for the nuances of a grin or the emotion of a shoulder blade. What duty does a girl owe to any one before her father? Obedience to him, that is surely the first law. I was happy to oblige them, I had grown sick of the heat of the south and all the miserable sun. 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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