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But this time she wanted nothing for herself: she wanted something for Hoddy—success. But I was portentous, I can assure you. It’s the rarest luck, the wildest, most impossible accident. That world of fine printed cambrics and escorted maidens, of delicate secondary meanings and refined allusiveness, presented itself to her imagination with the brightness of a lost paradise, as indeed for many women it is a lost paradise. “That thing’s going on,” she told herself. So, while she watched, distressed and bewildered by her tumbling thoughts, the packet, Canton bound, ruffled the placid waters of the Pearl River. “Your friend, “DAVID COURTLAW. "Have a little patience, Sir," rejoined the jailer. I am bothered.
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