From time to time the man below would shout, and the boy would let the threads go with the snap of a harpist, only to recover them instantly. The solos were revealing, sensual and moody. A stack of chimneys, on the house above them, had yielded to the storm, and descended in a shower of bricks and stones. I’ve never seen her quite so sure of herself. So, while she watched, distressed and bewildered by her tumbling thoughts, the packet, Canton bound, ruffled the placid waters of the Pearl River.
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