“Good evening, Dorling,” he said. Mr. Canton at night is as much China as the border town of Lan-Chow-fu. I'm glad to recognise you. “You are coming in, aren’t you, Sydney?” “If I may,” he answered. There was a time, long, long ago, when the tears would have rushed to my eyes unbidden at the bare mention of generosity like yours, Mr. Annabel turned on the electric light and made her way into the sitting-room. It was as if her finite human brain could only store a limit of information, details like hair color and fingernail shape easily jettisoned to make room for the nuances of a grin or the emotion of a shoulder blade.
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