Then the bridge had arched gateways, bristling with spikes, and garnished (as all ancient gateways ought to be) with the heads of traitors. The continuity was frequently broken in upon by diversory suppositions. For five days The Tigress chugged her way across the burnished South China, grumpily, as if she resented this meddling with her destiny. I did not have to dig deep in my imagination to create the status-obsessed suburban environment of Lucy’s modern milieu.
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