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‘She is constantly thinking of you,’ I said. "Won't you be persuaded, Joan?" he added, making a similar offer to Mrs. “A new admirer, Annabel? But what has that to do with your going to England?” “Everything! He is Sir John Ferringhall—very stupid, very respectable, very egotistical. A white man, wandering about the streets of Canton at night, was a challenge to such a catastrophe. She tried gentle words with him, beguiling perfumes, even slipped aphrodisiac tisanes into his soup. “You can’t imagine,” Sydney exclaimed, “that the people downstairs will be such drivelling asses as to believe piffle like that. The aunt laughed. Looked all over that dratted convent of yours—or at least Trodger and the men did so—but no sign of them. He wanted her named Mary. The eggs were all right, but nobody in this part of the world had the least conception of what the coffee bean was for. She is English, and apparently in some distress. He sat down beside her and stroked her hair. “I am the most foolish of men. "And now," he continued, sternly, "was it your master who has just ridden by?" "No," answered Quilt, sullenly.
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