From the portals of the hotel—scarcely fifty yards from the canal—one saw the blank face of the ancient city of Canton. . She took up one of her father’s novels and put it down again, fretted up to her own room for some work, sat on her bed and meditated upon the room that she was now really abandoning forever, and returned at length with a stocking to darn. Her mouth was an effective tourniquet. Jack Sheppard is now wholly in my hands.
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