" "Better she die by her own hand, than by that monster's," cried Jack, brandishing the bar. “Perhaps,” she said, “it is the London climate. He looked exactly as she had dreamed him, handsome, rigidly dressed in a black suit, his hair still half gray, his eyes green and flashing like a cat’s. You simply can't get good oil down there, so I must husband the few drams I carry. She removed the belt and drew down his zipper. The silence of Canton at night was sinister, for none could prophesy what form of mob might suddenly boil out.
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