"The danger's past," whispered Bess. The sunshine broke across each shoulder, one lance striking the yellow face of a Chinaman, queueless and dressed in European clothes, the other lance falling squarely upon the face of the man he had journeyed thirteen thousand miles to find. Contenting himself with brandishing the weapon in the Jew's eyes, he exerted all his force to prevent him from rising. This morning he heard voices—McClintock's and the Wastrel's. She hoped that he would at long last remember his young male pride. He trembled violently. He had said so. But you want one quality, without which all others are valueless.
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