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. Wood!—no," replied the turnkey. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. Part of his head was swathed in linen bandages. "What is it?" "The night," she answered.
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