Her stifled misery had betrayed her. The silence of Canton at night was sinister, for none could prophesy what form of mob might suddenly boil out. ‘All these soldiers,’ she complained, adding with a sweep of one arm at the major’s dress, ‘all of them in red as you. The bliss had lasted one hundred and forty years, far more than an entire mortal lifetime. Clarice rubbed her belly, singing songs to the unborn baby.
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