That a longing of hers should be realized in this strange fashion was difficult to believe: it vaguely suggested something of a trap. She romanticized, imagining a life on the High Seas. "Seize this oar," vociferated the waterman. 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. The third item she took with a trembling hand by its waistbelt. One of the sampans was hailed, and a ropeladder was lowered. “Well,” she achieved at last. .
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