His name was Bartolomeo di Alberti. “Is that you, Nigel?” she asked. “Surely!” he remarked, with an expression of worried appeal. At the eastern gate of the churchyard stood the carriage with the steps lowered. But it strikes me there's a nigger in the woodpile somewhere, as you Yankees say. Above she found the two Chinamen squatted at the side of the door. It may be a long string, long enough if you like to tangle up all sorts of people; but there it is! If the paymaster pulls, home she must go.
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