The silence of Canton at night was sinister, for none could prophesy what form of mob might suddenly boil out. ‘They’ve gone, miss,’ came the answer, muffled through the panel door. A thousand dollars is a lot of money for an author to earn. With this person—who was no other than Mr. “God in Heaven, Annabel!” he cried. I have always loved you. And the woollen-draper departed.
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