Instinctively she had fallen into the posture of the poster, her hands behind her, her head bent slightly forward, her chin uplifted, her eyes bright with the drollery of the song. Presently he heard her voice. “To Paris! But why? What do you hope to discover there?” “I do not know,” he answered, “but I am going to see David Courtlaw. I asked him—to take me away. The silence of Canton at night was sinister, for none could prophesy what form of mob might suddenly boil out. I killed him, Nigel.
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