She was conscious of a ceaseless undercurrent of sound—the guttural Chinese tongue. Absolutely. Drenched to the skin,—in fact, he had been lying in a bed of muddy water,—and chilled to the very bone, he felt so stiff, that he could scarcely move. Beyond was an avenue of tall poplars that rose like columns, disappearing into undulating hills that were black with sleeping houses and fertile soil. . She shut her lips hard, her jaw hardened, and she set herself to struggle with him. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory.
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