Pole coolies came joggling along with bobbing blocks of jade—white jade, splashed and veined with translucent emerald green. Sir Rowland Trenchard is aware of your return to England. After all, why need one look down. Everywhere I went and rapped at a door I found behind it another dreadful dingy woman—another fallen queen, I suppose— dingier than the last, dirty, you know, in grain. He had not been successful as the world counted success; the fat bank-account, the filled waiting room of which he had once dreamed, had never materialized except in the smoke of his evening pipe.
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