She gaped at its keep, at least ten feet tall, a frightening gray coffin turned upright. You were accused of having been seen with the latter. Through one doorway she saw a grave Chinaman standing on a stage-like platform. He groped her buttocks. She helped Jack to sit down, and dragged the jacket off him, lifting his shirt to expose the gash that had sliced across his side. “I think that I will leave this letter for him,” she said. But you shall swing, rascal,—you shall swing. It would be the culmination of her plan.
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