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Shortly afterwards,—it seemed an age to the anxious mother,—Mr. . 47 was no more than a sort of railway compartment on the way to that. . You belong to me, and I have waited long enough. Here was an appalling fact: all her previous loneliness had been trifling beside that which now encompassed her and would for years to come. ‘Come, Jacques, mon pauvre,’ she uttered, and reached for the lad again, hardly aware of the muted sounds of running feet and much banging and crashing beyond the secret door. No Cantonese was in those days permitted to cross to the Sha-mien after sunset without a license. ‘Can I not leave you for a day without you getting yourself into trouble?’ ‘Imbecile,’ she uttered faintly. For a long time to come that would naturally be the theme of any story he undertook to write.
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