Ah Cum was not a sailor, but he knew his water-front. There you are, the best client’s chair. He thrust the smaller weapon into a scabbard that hung from his belt. Yet her aunt, with a ringed hand flitting to her lips and a puzzled, worried look in her eyes, deaf to all this riot of warmth and flitting desire, was playing Patience—playing Patience, as if Dionysius and her curate had died together. He took up his hat and went. But it was only six-thirty.
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