The morning of Monday the 16th of November 1724 at length dawned. At last the panel swung back into the library. 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. He was now at the entrance of the chapel, and striking the door over which he had previously climbed a violent blow with the bar, it flew open. I don’t quite know why.
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