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I cannot let you go. ’ ‘Gad, but she’s a beauty,’ gasped Hilary, and slammed his sword back in its scabbard. Wood resounded from below. She was conscious of a ceaseless undercurrent of sound—the guttural Chinese tongue. "This gash," he added, pointing to one of the larger scars, "was a wipe from the hanger of Tom Thurland, whom I apprehended for the murder of Mrs. Her long incarceration at the convent in Blaye had taught her to be dismissive of her own appearance. In Europe or in America people would have smiled; but in Singapore—the half-way port of the world—where a human kaleidoscope tumbles continuously east and west, no one had remarked her.
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