Kevin Chen, Martin’s father, was equally stately, his dark brown eyes bright with the fire of extreme intelligence. Trenchard was tempted to examine the contents of some of these cases, but a closer inspection made him recoil from them in disgust. It was a young girl who overheard me when I was on my third shopkeeper who answered my question. And experience was slow in coming. He stood upon the threshold, dangling his eye-glasses in his fingers, stolid, imperturbable, mildly interrogative. Oh dear!—how sorry I am I ever left Wych Street.
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