Framed in one of the square ports of the packet was a face which reminded Ah Cum of a Japanese theatrical mask. His hand shook so violently that he dropped the handkerchief; and he let it lie on the floor because he dared not stoop. In any case, there was no doing anything on a Sunday and Brewis Charvill, his main quarry, had gone out of town unexpectedly. But there was, it insisted, no mobility in his face, no movement, nothing about him that warmed. ‘No, I don’t see much future in pursuing her down this passage.
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