“I wanted to make love to you. He, next, tried to clamber up the flying buttresses and soffits of the pier, in the hope of reaching some of the windows and other apertures with which, as a man-of-war is studded with port-holes, the sides of the bridge were pierced. Shall we say at half-past seven?” She rose from her chair. Then the bridge had arched gateways, bristling with spikes, and garnished (as all ancient gateways ought to be) with the heads of traitors. She turned about, and was persecuted by visions, half memories, half dreams, of Ramage.
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