The lines about his mouth gradually softened. 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. It was long and narrow, a well-lit, wellventilated, quiet gallery of small tables and sinks, pervaded by a thin smell of methylated spirit and of a mitigated and sterilized organic decay. A sarcastic smile seemed to play upon the chief-taker's lips; and abashed at his own irresolution, the lad went on. You need give yourself no more concern about Kneebone.
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