In a moment the brisk evening breeze caught the lank canvas and bellied it taut. CHAPTER XXIX. Wood fancied he heard the exulting laugh of Jonathan Wild. 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. Charcoal. He wanted to know what the joke against him was—if any.
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