"Who isn't it like?" he asked, endeavouring to gain possession of the drawing, which, af the sound of his footstep, she crushed between her fingers. David Courtlaw—Sir John Ferringhall. . I cannot be intimate—’ stressing the word with a deep look ‘— with one I feel to be a stranger. He had the appearance of a man who has known no rest for many nights. The sunshine broke across each shoulder, one lance striking the yellow face of a Chinaman, queueless and dressed in European clothes, the other lance falling squarely upon the face of the man he had journeyed thirteen thousand miles to find.
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