His face was wreathed in smiles, his beringed hand was cordially outstretched. “He is not—I don’t like him. I know not who you are; and, as I cannot discern your face, I may be doing you an injustice. Killed is too kind a word. 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. You must always shave and part your hair straight.
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