” It was a tiny little room, daintily furnished, individual in its quaint colouring, and the masses of perfumed flowers set in strange and unexpected places. ’ The eyes flashed momentarily. Then a surge of rage welled up. One has to train one’s self not to. In fiction you make the Chinese secretive, criminal, and terrible—or comic. On the Day he had trumpet-like outbreaks of cordiality, varied by a watchful preoccupation.
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