One’s sense of proportion, battered out of all shape in the daily life of cities, reasserts itself. “Only it is much too late for you to be out alone. There was a loose button on that coat, and I want to sew it on. 7. His clothes had evidently seen some service, and were plentifully begrimed with the dust of the workshop. The Oriental accepts my medicines kowtowing, and when my back is turned, chucks the stuff out of the window and burns joss-sticks.
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