So, here he was, on the last lap of middle age, in China, having missed all the thrills in life except one—the war against Death. The poor wretch, driven by desperation to the commission of a crime which her soul abhors, is no more beyond the hope of reformation than she is without the pale of mercy. He was way out of her league and it was downright odd that he had obliged himself to talk to her, let alone walk her home. " "Don't say anything about it, dear Mrs.
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