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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. Good and Evil. Love anywhere. That last year in Paris, when Annabel and she had lived in different worlds, had often been a nightmare to her. “And aren’t there fees to pay at the Imperial College?” her aunt was saying—a disagreeable question. She mounted the stairs of the theatrical agent’s office with very much less than her usual buoyancy, nor did she find much encouragement in the general appearance of the room into which she was shown. Where is he?" "Here," answered Jack. Very slowly, very fearfully, she turned her head. “But of course it’s aunt’s doing really. “It’s the centre of the intellectuals. There was no other door in it, and Jack therefore struck into another entry which branched off to the right.
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