She never knew what became of her farmer after that. ” “Don’t say that,” Sydney begged. ‘I have a very good mind to do so, imbecile. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. She held out her arms to him and smiled. 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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