She calls us her guests, but in reality we are her prisoners. Master, your humble servant. She was nude and horribly maimed. He fancied that the whole fabric of the bridge was cracking over head,—that the arch was tumbling upon him,—that the torrent was swelling around him, whirling him off, and about to bury him in the deafening abyss. Why had she married him, off-hand, like that? She did not love him, or he knew nothing of love signs. “Remember,” he said, “you are not by any means a dying man now, but you’ll never pull through if you don’t husband your strength. Les Misérables, A Tale of Two Cities, Henry Esmond, The Last Days of Pompeii, The Marble Faun … Love stories! Until her arrival in Singapore, she had never read a novel. He, a Chinaman, troubling himself over Occidental ideas! With his hands in his sleeves, he proceeded on his way. .
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