From the portals of the hotel—scarcely fifty yards from the canal—one saw the blank face of the ancient city of Canton. The tension was palpable. Thames unfolded the drawing, smoothed out its creases, and beheld a portrait of himself. Peg after peg had gone down his blistered throat, but never had a smile touched his lips, never had his gaze roved inquisitively. “Don’t bunch too much as you come out,” she added. " "Sir Rowland is dead," replied Jonathan, gloomily.
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