Sheppard, fixing her glazing eyes upon him. "Rowland, your violence is killing me," she returned, in a plaintive tone. “To Hell if we don’t change our ways. Here, Peter," he added to a curly-headed lad, who was playing on one of the grassy tombs, "ask your father to step this way. What a pity! For all her ignorance of material things—the human inventions which served the physical comforts of man—how much she knew about man himself! She had seen him bereft of all those spiritual props which permit man to walk on two feet instead of four—broken, without resilience. You can pull it over on everybody else, Lucy, but not on me. He made his headquarters at the Victoria on the Sha-mien, and generally met the Hong-Kong packet in the morning. But you must not imagine me wrapped in melancholy.
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