She spoke slowly. You may enjoy your pride, your arrogance—in a coffin. If there was a Yankee bar-keep in HongKong, James Boyle would soon locate him. But I do not love you. Indeed I am! I would make this country a collective monarchy, and all the girls and women in it should be the Queen. Her eyes filled as she thought of him, the image of his laughing countenance coming into her mind, to be swiftly followed by a vision of the blood running from his cut hand.
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