Only the night before, in the dining room of the Hong-Kong Hotel, she had watched him empty glass after glass of whisky, and shudder and shudder. ‘Jacques,’ she said, turning to the lad, and holding the habit out, ‘take this for me and leave it in the passage where we have left the lantern. The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. They’ll face facts as facts, and understand.
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