At sunset the swarming abruptly ceased; even the sampans appeared to draw closer together, with the quiet of water-fowl. 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. I bored him. She fell with a plop onto her rear end in the mud and sat dumbly like a statue, water eddying around her. The tired woman looked quietly at her.
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