“We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. “Go to the far corner,” he said, “and sing the last verse of Les Petites. He’s got flowers. Canton was something like a blind alley; unless you were native, you couldn't get anywhere except by returning to Hong-Kong and starting afresh. ” “It’s so strange to think of you—troubled by such things. ‘Lucky I have you to keep me from Bedlam, then.
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