In fiction you make the Chinese secretive, criminal, and terrible—or comic. She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. "I've not quite done yet," said Jonathan, as he joined the turnkeys. You can scribble if you want to, but after you've given your eight hours daily to the mills. That for the men lay near the Lodge, with which it was connected by a dark passage.
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