Her hair was of the darkest brown, and finest texture; and, when unloosed, hung down to her heels. Pure luck! But for that bottle of whisky, nobody in the Hong-Kong Hotel would have been able to identify the photograph; and at this hour James Boyle O'Higgins would have been on the way to Yokohama, and the trail lost for ever. It wasn’t. “You little wretch!” she exclaimed weakly. “My mom is making duck.
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