‘Parbleu, that pig, he will ruin all. Inexplicably there flashed into vision the Chinese wedding procession in the narrow, twisted streets of the city, that first day: the gorgeous palanquin, the tomtoms, the weird music, the ribald, jeering mob that trailed along behind. “Here,” he said, “is this Blau See, and here we rest until to-morrow. Raymond Plote would only be missed by his mother. You know—I wish I could roll my little body up small and squeeze it into your hand and grip your fingers upon it.
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