The gallant woollen-draper was now in his thirty-sixth year. The silence of Canton at night was sinister, for none could prophesy what form of mob might suddenly boil out. Don’t you think that the shade of my hair is lovely?” “There is nothing particular the matter with the shade,” Anna answered, “but it is not nearly so becoming as before you touched it. “I am very glad to hear you say it,” he repeated, and refrained from further inquiry. A woman may choose any one for her lover, but for her friend she makes no mistake.
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