Wood started to his feet. Montague Hill is. Inexplicably there flashed into vision the Chinese wedding procession in the narrow, twisted streets of the city, that first day: the gorgeous palanquin, the tomtoms, the weird music, the ribald, jeering mob that trailed along behind. Return, I implore of you, to your master,—to Mr. Jarvis did not leave a will. Melusine came close again, and reached up a finger tentatively to the face depicted there. I rather want them. You are not a tourist seeking adventure.
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