" With no little effort—for the right words had a way of tumbling back out of reach—he marshalled his phrases, and as he uttered them, closed his eyes to lessen the possibility of a break. Ramage stood up, and suddenly turned the key in the door in an off-hand manner. But she perceived that to tell Manning of her Ramage adventures as they had happened would be like tarring figures upon a water-color. The old lady’s face was stiff with anger. The next instant, he was launched into eternity! Scarcely had he been turned off a moment, when a man with swarthy features leapt into the cart with an open clasp-knife in his hand, and, before he could be prevented, severed the rope, and cut down the body. He had barely said, \"Anytime,\" before she shut the door rather rudely in his face. There was a strange quality of steel in this pretty creature. The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint in Southwark. What was the wench at? Yet he could not maintain this stand off forever. “Let go!” she gasped at him, a blaze of anger. "Where am I?" she cried, passing her hand across her brow.
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