“That’s suicidal bullshit, Lucy. Ruth's emotion was a primitive joy: she was essential in this man's life, and she would always be happy because he would always be needing her. But his daughter might well have a claim. He began shoveling dirt over the bodies. Arrived there, their first object was to seek out Davies, by whom they were conducted to the lady's retreat,—a lone habitation, situated on the outskirts of Saint George's Fields in Southwark. No hair to fall awry, no powder to displace, no ruffles to crush; men are lucky. He unlocked himself from her embrace. The silence of Canton at night was sinister, for none could prophesy what form of mob might suddenly boil out.
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