“We are not the sort that goes under,” said Ann Veronica, holding her hands so that the red reflections vanished from her eyes. For a while he threatened her. One of them was a stout square-built man, with a singularly swarthy complexion, and harsh forbidding features. One morning, as he took his stand on the Hong-Kong packet dock to ambush the possible tourist, he witnessed the arrival of a tubby schooner, dirty gray and blotched as though she had run through fire. It seemed to her at this moment that there was nothing left for her to do.
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