He thought of his severe attitude towards the girl who was rightly and with contempt refusing his measured help. “By Jove!” he exclaimed. "Heaven be praised, I am not the son of a nobleman. He was alert, well-groomed, and yet—perhaps in contrast with the more volatile French type—there was a suggestion of weight about him, not to say heaviness. Why should they be? She and Ramage were friends, very good friends. Little things, almost impalpable, had happened to justify that doubt; something in his manner had belied his words.
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