Lucy stood relieved that she had not messed up the solo. If Winifred remained silent, her looks would have disarmed a person of less assurance than the woollen-draper. Kneebone's house, the young man hastened to a hotel in the neighbourhood of Covent Garden, where, having procured a horse, he shaped his course towards the west end of the town. So, here he was, on the last lap of middle age, in China, having missed all the thrills in life except one—the war against Death. There was none.
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