It was noon when the caravan reached the tower of the water-clock. She herself, and one other there, recognized the interposition of something akin to tragedy. " The walls were covered with racks of loaded rifles. Enjoy. “They all catch on,” she said. . ’ ‘But I have told you not,’ she protested. Things seem to come rather easily. She felt scrawny, lanky, badly dressed in a baggy black T-shirt, sweaty, not at all beautiful; not even pretty. The Cantonese, excepting in the shops where he expects profit, always resents the intrusion of the fan-quei—foreign devil.
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