"It's all up, master," groaned Ben, "nothin' short of a merracle can save us. "A vow," she answered,—"a vow to my dead husband. I can be a gentleman. She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. One morning, as he took his stand on the Hong-Kong packet dock to ambush the possible tourist, he witnessed the arrival of a tubby schooner, dirty gray and blotched as though she had run through fire. It ceased to be the symbol of liberty and a remote and quite abstracted person, and became suddenly and very disagreeably the token of a large and portentous body visible and tangible. ‘Thought you were going to break in here,’ he said, in an impatient whisper.
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