’ ‘Remenham House,’ exclaimed Trodger, who had been watching this interchange open-mouthed. She saw, twenty yards down the platform, the shiny hat and broad back and inimitable swagger of Ramage. The evening breeze came; the bamboo shades on the veranda clicked and rasped; the loose edges of the manuscript curled. There was no broken faith—not even any question of anything of the sort. Past her shot the little old lady in the bonnet, running incredibly fast, but otherwise still alertly respectable, and she was making a strange threatening sound as she ran, such as one would use in driving ducks out of a garden—“B-rr-r-r-r—!” and pawing with black-gloved hands. “She’s proclaimed herself queen of the school. Women who Dids, and all that kind of thing. . Looked all over that dratted convent of yours—or at least Trodger and the men did so—but no sign of them. " "Not at fisticuffs, perhaps," interrupted Jack, fiercely; "but I've my knife. " "I'd never set eyes on you again. White,” the lady in black satin remarked.
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