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I sent a message straight. One morning, as he took his stand on the Hong-Kong packet dock to ambush the possible tourist, he witnessed the arrival of a tubby schooner, dirty gray and blotched as though she had run through fire. It was horrible. “Perhaps,” she said, “it is the London climate. And yet, Spurlock was afraid of the doctor; so was Ruth. ‘The gatehouse? But why must you move him at all?’ ‘Listen, missie.
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