His literary instincts were reviving. ‘That I do not yet know. There is something that inspires a feeling of inexpressible melancholy in sailing on a dark night upon the Thames. It was in another world from that in which men will die for a kiss, and touching hands lights fires that burn up lives—the world of romance, the world of passionately beautiful things. Her natural instincts reasserted themselves. But eventually Spurlock laughed. The Oriental accepts my medicines kowtowing, and when my back is turned, chucks the stuff out of the window and burns joss-sticks.
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