I go back about once a year. Moored to the steps, several wherries were dancing in the rushing current, as if impatient of restraint. Nobody who cared. One of his chair coolies had witnessed the transportation of Spurlock by stretcher to the sampan in the canal. She heard the ocean in the distance, waves crashing on the beach, high tide. His fingers cherished the hilt of his sword and his eyes were on his friend and superior, ready at his back to do whatever was needed.
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