Listening on the dimlit landing, he saw Roding’s face muscles tighten. It was the only time she had ever hit him, punched him right in the stomach like one of his favorite Three Stooges episodes. "I beg pardon," he said. Standing before a mirror set on a dresser between the windows, two hands frozen in the act of adjusting a wide-brimmed hat on her head, stood a lady in a dark riding habit, her startled features turned towards the door. In fiction you make the Chinese secretive, criminal, and terrible—or comic.
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