Her amusement fled and she stared at him, as a slow thump began beating at her breast. Her face reminded him of a delicate unglazed porcelain cup, filled with blond wine. A few yards further off something grey, inert, was lying, a huddled-up heap of humanity twisted into a strange unnatural shape. Mr. It is no good going into that. Wood, in his Sunday habiliments and Sunday buckle. So, here he was, on the last lap of middle age, in China, having missed all the thrills in life except one—the war against Death.
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