One of the coolies held the paper lantern. "I cannot—dare not injure him," rejoined Trenchard, with a haggard look, and sinking, as if paralysed, into a chair. But it strikes me there's a nigger in the woodpile somewhere, as you Yankees say. You know nothing of life, nothing of its dangers, nothing of its possibilities. This way there will be not so much shame, and the vicomte will let them remain. “Sure, I guess so.
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