Gay, was a stout, good-looking, good-humoured man, about thirty-six, with a dark complexion, an oval face, fine black eyes, full of fire and sensibility, and twinkling with roguish humour—an expression fully borne out by the mouth, which had a very shrewd and sarcastic curl. She was shaking violently when she entered the side door of the house. She could not say a word, much less move. Some Chinaman might take it into his head to shout: "Death to the foreign devils!" And out of that wall yonder would boil battle and murder and sudden death. His face will be all I need. She could no longer wait. Sir Rowland witnessed these proceedings like one stupified. Aside from some loose coin and a trunk key, there was nothing in the pockets: no mail, no letter of credit, not even a tailor's label. There was just a minute’s hesitation before they gave her a room. ‘I don’t want that girl running her head into any more danger.
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