“There was a man called Montague Hill,” she said hoarsely, “but he is dead. The sunshine broke across each shoulder, one lance striking the yellow face of a Chinaman, queueless and dressed in European clothes, the other lance falling squarely upon the face of the man he had journeyed thirteen thousand miles to find. On this side a flight of wooden steps, protected by a hand-rail, led to a door opening upon the summit of the prison. “Yet it is my last evening, and I think —if you are sure that you would like to have me—that I will risk it.
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