An old man with a bent back who limped in, slow and stiff, leaning heavily on a cane. You don’t know. She was conscious of a ceaseless undercurrent of sound—the guttural Chinese tongue. Both advanced towards it, when, by the light of the lantern, Wood beheld, in the countenance of the stranger, the well-remembered and stern features of Rowland. The trees were graceful and brown, arching and fanning their golden leaves as if to shower with coins the pink-gold sky.
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