Upon the pavement near the court lay the porter, who had been prostrated by a blow from the butt-end of a pistol. And yet—such is the buoyancy of youth—within a fortnight he began his first novel, pretending to himself that it was on Ruth's account. "What of her?" cried the knight. But this was long ago. As soon as the latter beheld him, she uttered a loud scream, and fainted. The silence of Canton at night was sinister, for none could prophesy what form of mob might suddenly boil out.
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