“I should imagine,” he said, shaking out a copy of The Times, “that it is your brain which is addled. The sunshine broke across each shoulder, one lance striking the yellow face of a Chinaman, queueless and dressed in European clothes, the other lance falling squarely upon the face of the man he had journeyed thirteen thousand miles to find. And, turning at the touch, he perceived Sheppard's glance fixed meaningly upon him. His mind was filled briefly with psychic images of a charnel house that danced like a spider in his head.
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