Then came the cable that you were in Canton, ill, but not dangerously so. ‘Don’t even think of it,’ warned Gerald, in the voice generally reserved for his men. But it seemed that their presence was not even suspected. Crack went the whip, and away floundered the heavy vehicle through the deep ruts of the ill-kept road, or rather lane, (for it was little better,) which, then, led across Southampton Fields. But a biddable girl. “There is my aunt,” she said.
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