She tiptoed to the stand and gathered up the manuscripts which she carried to a chair by the window. The pieces fell to the ground in a little white shower. One morning, as he took his stand on the Hong-Kong packet dock to ambush the possible tourist, he witnessed the arrival of a tubby schooner, dirty gray and blotched as though she had run through fire. The eggs were all right, but nobody in this part of the world had the least conception of what the coffee bean was for. He gripped the window-sill behind him. “Why? Do you think I’m a stoner?” He asked. "What?—help take care of him? Why, you can't do that, Miss Enschede!" was the protest. At length, she suddenly started to her feet; and before Winifred could prevent her, staggered up to Thames. The third time she escaped she reached the inconsequent barricade of the overturned table. It is queer how ideas pop into one's head.
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