Her little white hand stole across the table. She was posing before the mirror, critically, miserably, defensively, and perhaps bewilderedly. Never had he corrected her with hand or whip, the ring in his voice had always been sufficient to cower her. Ho-hum! CHAPTER IX The Hong-Kong packet lay alongside the warehouse frontage. "Who? Jack!" exclaimed Jonathan. She might even forgive him. "To-night it is their turn," said Jonathan, binding up his wounded fingers with a handkerchief.
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