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He sent a speculative glance at the immobile yellow face. They came from every part, from the pit, the circle and the gallery, even from the stalls. With his tongue lolling and his flea-bitten stump wagging apologetically, he glanced from face to face to see if there was any forgiveness visible. "To-night it is their turn," said Jonathan, binding up his wounded fingers with a handkerchief. Canton is all China at night. ‘Do not move, messieurs, or I shall be compelled to blow off your head. He got up. Mr. How long has Miss Charvill been in England?’ ‘Not long, sir. But give me till to-morrow—only till to-morrow—I may be able to part with him then. “It is part of the irony of life,” he said.
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