Besides, I'm afraid her simple honesty will spoil any invented yarn. The sunshine broke across each shoulder, one lance striking the yellow face of a Chinaman, queueless and dressed in European clothes, the other lance falling squarely upon the face of the man he had journeyed thirteen thousand miles to find. The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. . They don’t count, and I don’t care.
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