The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. I suppose this is the sort of damned rubbish—” “Oh! Ssh, Peter!” cried Miss Stanley. " "All right; and thank you. "There's only one way out of the muddle, that I can see. “There is some mystery about you both,” he exclaimed, with sudden earnestness. Sometimes it seemed to him that he was an impostor: that Ruth believed him to be one Howard Spurlock, when he was only masquerading as Spurlock. 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. She opened the door to him herself.
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