He's going to ask you to Prom. “Some afternoon. The sing-song girl, her fiddle broken, was beating her forehead upon the floor and wailing: Ai, ai! Ai, ai! Spurlock—or Taber, as he called himself—sat slumped in a chair, staring with glazed eyes at nothing, absolutely uninterested in the confusion for which he was primarily accountable. This did not tickle his vanity; on the contrary, it enlivened his terror, which is a phase of fascination. She tipped his mouth towards her own and kissed him. How long he continued thus he scarcely knew; but just before dawn, he managed to regain his legs, and, crawling up a bank, perceived he was within a quarter of a mile of Tottenham. Canton is all China at night.
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