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“Ye Gods!” she said at last. Battle, murder, and sudden death—and an old chap like McClintock tuning his piano in the midst of it. The thief-taker's throat was bound up with thick folds of linen, and his face had a ghastly and cadaverous look, which communicated an undefinable and horrible expression to his glances. She was rash and ignorant, absolutely inexperienced. A white man, wandering about the streets of Canton at night, was a challenge to such a catastrophe. F. " "Sir Rowland is dead," replied Jonathan, gloomily. Something in his smile, in the cynical suggestiveness of his deferential tone, maddened her.
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