“The one who used to live at Lyndmore. It was everyone's favorite meal. The other must call a coach as quickly as he can. God bless you, Auntie! I'll go into the mills and make pulp with my bare hands, if you want me to. Yet, here she was, in the ancient Chinese city, weaving in and out of the narrow streets some scarcely wide enough for two men to walk abreast, streets that boiled and eddied with yellow human beings, who worshipped strange gods, ate strange foods, and diffused strange suffocating smells.
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