The sing-song girls in Hong-Kong are far handsomer. Amid a litter of nails without heads, screws without worms, and locks without wards, lay a glue-pot and an oilstone, two articles which their owner was wont to term "his right hand and his left. And, after all, a fine clear sky of bright colors is the signal to come out of hiding and rejoice and go on with life. “Only four spoonsful left,” she declared briskly, “and your turn to buy the next pound, Sydney.
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