“I’d rather go as a chorus-girl,” she said. We looked upon you, my dear Sir John, with reverence, almost with awe. She was finally dead, going to Hell. ‘This is a private house,’ Hilary said severely, ‘and you are trespassing. Rows of roasted duck, brilliantly varnished; luscious vegetables, which she had been warned against; baskets of melon seed and water-chestnuts; men working in teak and blackwood; fan makers and jade cutters; eggs preserved in what appeared to her as petrified muck; bird's nests and shark fins. Ain’t enough as I’ve got militiamen quartered on me this se’ennight, lazing about all day, eating me out of house and home and drinking my liquor into the bargain.
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