There it is. Her fingers were bursting through her gloves, as if to get at once into touch with Ann Veronica. “One can talk without undertones, so to speak,” said Ramage. To reach the Sha-mien—and particularly the Hotel Victoria—one crossed a narrow canal, always choked with rocking sampans over and about which swarmed yellow men and women and children in varied shades of faded blue cotton. Once she stopped in front of a mirror and looked at herself thoughtfully. The whole place had come to life, the magic seeped out of the walls. Shocked, Melusine shot out of that blanketing warmth of sensation. He returned figuratively to his bed—the bed he had made for himself and in which he must for ever lie.
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