The houses overhung in a frightful manner, and looked as if the next gust would precipitate them into the river. The young man's imagination suddenly pictured the man as a rock, loosed from its ancient bed, crumbling as it fell. For a while they stood there, silent, motionless, staring at the doorway where still a few strings of the bamboo curtain swayed and twisted, agitated by the Wastrel's passage. Manning questioned whether when they were bad they were really beautiful or when they were beautiful bad.
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