But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. She felt she had stepped into a world of unknown usages. The silence of Canton at night was sinister, for none could prophesy what form of mob might suddenly boil out. " "I wish you hadn't mentioned her," said Jack, in a broken voice, while his whole frame shook with emotion. “It’s very good,” she said.
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