She tiptoed into the entryway where some decorator had placed a live orchid upon a glassy ebony table. 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. She ran down alleyways and between buildings, faster than an Olympian, until she could hear his voice no more.
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