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. Mr. "You are my prisoner. “You silly wimmin,” he said over and over again throughout the hearing, plucking at his blotting-pad with busy hands. "There he is!" "I fear not," said her father, with a doubtful shake of the head. The one profession, the one decent profession, I mean, for a woman—except the stage— is teaching, and there we trample on one another.
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