\"What's that?\" Lucy asked. John knew everybody, it seemed. "Never heard of a sing-song girl; never heard of a geisha! Flower of the Lotus: the sing-song girl called her that. In the first place there were not so many suitable advertisements as she had expected. They were inscribed with the name RIMBAUER, EMILIO J. That wasn’t even the worst thing. The cloth was removed, and Wood, drawing the table as near the window as possible—for it was getting dusk —put on his spectacles, and opened that sacred volume from which the best consolation in affliction is derived, and left the lovers—for such they may now be fairly termed—to their own conversation. “That’s it,” she said. “How are you?” He asked, realizing she was unnerved by the very sound of his voice.
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