***** In the daytime the streets of the ancient city of Canton are yet filled with the original confusion—human beings in quest of food. One of them was a stout square-built man, with a singularly swarthy complexion, and harsh forbidding features. “Who took care of you after she died?” “My father. Then it was the woman herself who was changed. "Is she married?" he asked, after a brief pause. Near the body, which, it will be surmised, was that of Abraham Mendez, two ruffianly personages were seated, quietly smoking, and bestowing no sort of attention upon the new-comers. Looking at this girl, a sense of failure swept over him. I never forgive an injury.
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