I’ll mention it. Spurlock knew that somewhere along the way he would write a story worth while. In Singapore that had been her only dissipation: a dozen pairs of silk stockings. He removed his cigarette from his lips and waved it gently in the air. The flicker of an eyelash might betray his presence. Sometimes the music would be tender and dreamy, like a native mother's crooning to her young; sometimes it would be so gay that the flesh tingled and the feet were urged to dance; again, it would be like the storms crashing, thunderous. It was dusty, with dirty clothing strewn about, a cracked basin thick with grime on the rickety dresser, and a film of grease on the leaded casement.
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