Yet, here she was, in the ancient Chinese city, weaving in and out of the narrow streets some scarcely wide enough for two men to walk abreast, streets that boiled and eddied with yellow human beings, who worshipped strange gods, ate strange foods, and diffused strange suffocating smells. Some day I may forgive you; but not now. A dresser, a washstand, and a clothes press. But when she was thinking it over in her room that evening vague and baffling doubts came drifting across this conviction. Sheppard. This was number 13, Montague Street, familiarly spoken of in the neighbourhood as “White’s. 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.
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