“It’s a period of crude views and crude work,” said Mr. 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. I don’t have to take this shit. “Julian! I was worried that. ‘And she’s—’ She broke off, a sudden light in her eyes.
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