"Not so, Sir Rowland," returned Jonathan; "you are my prisoner. Some Chinaman might take it into his head to shout: "Death to the foreign devils!" And out of that wall yonder would boil battle and murder and sudden death. The evening breeze came; the bamboo shades on the veranda clicked and rasped; the loose edges of the manuscript curled. “She’s going to have some sort of meal with the Widgetts down the Avenue, and go up with them.
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