She cried and sobbed in fits. And a ballot-box—” Her face assumed an expression of intellectual conflict. The silence of Canton at night was sinister, for none could prophesy what form of mob might suddenly boil out. Perhaps that sealed letter was a form of confession, and thus relieved him on that score. “You go home,” he said, at parting; “you go home. Then they would leave and she would go back to being alone. Annabel a murderess! It was not possible.
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