The very carts and vans and cabs that Wellington Street poured out incessantly upon the bridge seemed ripe and good in her eyes. “After all,” he said, “I am not sure that you are not a very material person. One morning, as he took his stand on the Hong-Kong packet dock to ambush the possible tourist, he witnessed the arrival of a tubby schooner, dirty gray and blotched as though she had run through fire. When she came to, she was lying with her head in Martha’s lap, and a livid bruise was forming at the point of a raging headache. She tied the obi clumsily about her waist, then gently laid her hand on the bowed head. She was perplexed by this, and stood for some seconds in the empty street hesitating, until the appearance of another circumspect woman under the street lamp at the corner reassured her.
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