Miss Ellicot, who sang ballads, and liked Brendon to turn over the pages for her, tossed her head. Inexplicably there flashed into vision the Chinese wedding procession in the narrow, twisted streets of the city, that first day: the gorgeous palanquin, the tomtoms, the weird music, the ribald, jeering mob that trailed along behind. "How old are you?" demanded Miss Prudence. Well, kill me. I’m not discussing Shakespeare.
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