“Annabel,” she said, “you are my sister, or I would bid you take the flowers if you care for them, and leave the room. In fiction you make the Chinese secretive, criminal, and terrible—or comic. Fancy, as they say hereabouts!" What had aroused this open-air monologue was a small tin sign in a window. Sebastian had fetched tallow, which she angrily ordered him not to use, as she suspected its origin was not animal but human. Wood thought them both remarkably plain, but Mr. She had a feeling as though something had dropped from her eyes, as though she had just discovered herself for the first time—discovered herself as a sleepwalker might do, abruptly among dangers, hindrances, and perplexities, on the verge of a cardinal crisis.
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