"Well, what sort of journey have you had, Quilt?" asked the man as he hastened to assist Sir Rowland to dismount. She had refused to eat human beings when she had first learned her fate. 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. The farmer was a widow who was slightly famous around town for his prize cows and slightly more famous for his good looks. The dinner was stranger than she had ever anticipated. His natal burr was always in evidence when he was sentimentally affected. If I had been your companion only, and not your master, I might very well have been content to accept you for what you seem.
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