‘What in the world is that?’ demanded Miss Froxfield. Gianfrancesco was a contact of mine, I had allied myself to his father before him, and unbeknownst to anyone, to his Great-great-granduncle during the time of Crusades. 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. For a few days he was able to relegate his conscience to the background. “All your dreadful scientific things?” he said, with a smile that Miss Klegg thought extraordinarily kindly. Almost the best of all. Awkwardly, he closed his eyes and fumbled for a kiss.
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