Being a Chinaman in blood and instinct, he despised all spinsters; they were parasites. Jack seemed glad enough to rest, his back against the wall, and closed his eyes. You did not find him, but did you find his pistol? In the room beyond the bookroom there—a big room where a table had fallen. “Hey,” he said, his eyes slowly adjusting to the soft blackness. Standing before a mirror set on a dresser between the windows, two hands frozen in the act of adjusting a wide-brimmed hat on her head, stood a lady in a dark riding habit, her startled features turned towards the door. It might be that the boy had taken one drink too many, or someone had given him knock-out drops.
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