He stopped abruptly before the apparently incurious Chinaman. He was—a millionaire. Past her shot the little old lady in the bonnet, running incredibly fast, but otherwise still alertly respectable, and she was making a strange threatening sound as she ran, such as one would use in driving ducks out of a garden—“B-rr-r-r-r—!” and pawing with black-gloved hands. In each pause she could sense his growing trepidation. The blow had brought him back to the realm of sober thought.
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