They were the same. ‘Assuredly it is locked up. ” She shook her head. It must be some days before you can arrange for her to make an identification. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. Yet, here she was, in the ancient Chinese city, weaving in and out of the narrow streets some scarcely wide enough for two men to walk abreast, streets that boiled and eddied with yellow human beings, who worshipped strange gods, ate strange foods, and diffused strange suffocating smells.
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