"But she is saying something to me! What is it?" The hotel manager, who spoke Cantonese with facility, interpreted. " "It wasn't the fumes of whisky that toppled him out of his chair. Then a bit of colour flowed into his sunken white cheeks. Presently he began to weave a tale, sorry enough, with all the ancient claptraps and rusted platitudes. Bodies! Bodies! Horrible things! We are souls.
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