One morning, as he took his stand on the Hong-Kong packet dock to ambush the possible tourist, he witnessed the arrival of a tubby schooner, dirty gray and blotched as though she had run through fire. He leaned back in a low chair, and watched her graceful movements, the play of her white hands as she bent over some wonderful machine. ‘Cajolery? This is not your style. At the back of her mind, Melusine noted an odd look in the boy’s face, but there was no time to explore it.
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