Her amusement fled and she stared at him, as a slow thump began beating at her breast. "I have not many days,—perhaps, not many hours to live. Curiosity held her by one hand, urging her to recklessness, and caution held her by the other. I’ve bored you or something. Her glance, absorbing the gilt letters and their significance, communicated to her poised body a species of paralysis. Wood, delighted at the idea. ‘Silence,’ hissed a voice in French. No prisoner except Edgeworth Bess was placed in the same cell with him. Her complexion was wan and faded, except where it was tinged by a slight hectic flush, that made the want of colour more palpable; her eyes were large and black, but heavy and lustreless; her cheeks sunken; her frame emaciated; her dark hair thickly scattered with gray. 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.
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