Her lips parted, but no words came. And if she is not a nun, nor a refugee, and yet is entirely English, I’m hanged if I know what she is. There was the same airy grace of movement, the same deep brown hair and alabaster skin. What do you think, Annabel?” “I don’t think they would,” she admitted. Manning. 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.
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