Take me to the Stone Room. The person, shortly afterwards ushered into the room, seemed by the imperfect light,—for the evening was advancing, and the chamber darkened by heavy drapery,—to be a middle-sized middle-aged man, of rather vulgar appearance, but with a very shrewd aspect. The chromatic fiction with which he relieved his mind glanced but slightly at this aspect of life, and never with any quality of guidance. The word of a Chinaman; he had given it, so he must abide. The brain tires of resistance, and when it meets again and again, incoherently active, the same phrases, the same ideas that it has already slain, exposed and dissected and buried, it becomes less and less energetic to repeat the operation. The latter had delivered himself from one of his assailants, the attendant, Davies. He then spoke with a certain fatherly kindliness of the past. “Yeah. With this air in our blood, this sunlight soaking us.
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