To reach the Sha-mien—and particularly the Hotel Victoria—one crossed a narrow canal, always choked with rocking sampans over and about which swarmed yellow men and women and children in varied shades of faded blue cotton. How perfectly charming. Ashen blonde, a shade that would never excite the cynical commentary which men applied to certain types of blondes. ‘But on the off chance—slim, I grant you —that there is a spy down there, I don’t want to miss the fun. \" Larry got up from his chair and trudged to the refrigerator, pouring himself a glass of milk from the never-ending supply of two percent. The drunken beachcombers; the one-sided education; the utter loneliness of a white child without playfellows, human or animal, without fairy stories, who for days was left alone while the father visited neighbouring islands, these pictures sank far below their actual importance. “Quite an unimportant one,” he assured her. A moment before he had been a strong man, she had been in his power, a poor helpless thing.
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