There was absolute quiet. She had fallen asleep. Her girl, Clarice, was ten and just as pretty as a silver bell. Wood lifted up his hands in mute despair. To reach the Sha-mien—and particularly the Hotel Victoria—one crossed a narrow canal, always choked with rocking sampans over and about which swarmed yellow men and women and children in varied shades of faded blue cotton. “Come,” she said. Nuns, I mean. Of course Ruth was not aware that in this same volume there were lyrics known the world over.
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