“I doubted my luck, at least. "My horse is at the door, saddled, with pistols in the holsters,—mount him and fly. I had no idea. So, here he was, on the last lap of middle age, in China, having missed all the thrills in life except one—the war against Death. “Thank you—and good-bye. ‘I know,’ said Prudence Sindlesham, sympathy in her tone. I am not comfortable,’ complained Madame Valade. The spinsters had purchased one grass-linen tablecloth; the girl and the young man had purchased nothing. We are not animals.
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