Fritz sang for her sometimes, for Fritz could sing even before he was able to form words. Either Sydney or Mr. You will never be able to draw. Yet, here she was, in the ancient Chinese city, weaving in and out of the narrow streets some scarcely wide enough for two men to walk abreast, streets that boiled and eddied with yellow human beings, who worshipped strange gods, ate strange foods, and diffused strange suffocating smells.
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