"Help!—murder!—thieves!" screamed Mrs. Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. The doors of several of the wards were thrown open for these parties, and as Jack passed, he could not help glancing at the wretched inmates. So, here he was, on the last lap of middle age, in China, having missed all the thrills in life except one—the war against Death. At length, at the end of a passage, next to the cell where Mrs.
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