The sing-song girls in Hong-Kong are far handsomer. Her hair touched water, becoming like the seaweed in its velvet slickness. She said as much to him. Everything in this world changed—except human folly. He leaned back in a low chair, and watched her graceful movements, the play of her white hands as she bent over some wonderful machine. And the hunter home from the hill. They hunted up shady nooks and went to sleep; but promptly at four they would be at the office, ready for barter.
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