“I suppose a girl MUST be underpaid and sweated,” said Ann Veronica. I haven’t, anyhow. But I trusted to that ring of yours. Below the window he saw two coolies carrying a coffin, which presently they callously dumped into a yawning pit. Not a star could be discerned, but, in their stead, streaks of lurid radiance, whence proceeding it was impossible to determine, shot ever and anon athwart the dusky vault, and added to the ominous and threatening appearance of the night. It is just how things happen to be.
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