Sharples," replied Quilt; "lock 'em up. Pah! Damned Frenchified—’ ‘If you say again,’ threatened Melusine, moving to meet him like a jungle cat poised for the kill, ‘this scorn of a thing French, monsieur le baron, I shall be compelled to give you this apoplexy of which she speaks, madame. See? Down we should rush in a foam—in a cloud of snow—to flight and a dream. Ramage looked at her for a long and discriminating interval without speaking.
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