The Cantonese, excepting in the shops where he expects profit, always resents the intrusion of the fan-quei—foreign devil. He stood there, large and dark, enunciating, in his clear voice from beneath his large mustache, clear flat sentences, deliberately kindly. Forgive me if a certain warmth creeps into my words! The Park is green and gray to-day, but I am glowing pink and gold. No doubt he knew enough of his world to recognise that he stood little chance against the word of a major of militia.
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