" "The very idea is dreadful," whimpered Edgeworth Bess. 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. The birds were singing blithely amid the trees,—the lowing of the cows resounded from the yard,—a delicious perfume from the garden was wafted through the open window,—at a distance, the church-bells of Willesden were heard tolling for evening service. I don’t care if you’re not a virgin, that’s not how I really am. I want to make my own selection. ‘Gérard will think that I have gone back to London.
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