\" Michelle's mother replied from the front room in her sing-song tone. ‘No, Melusine. A blow from the iron bar instantly stretched the ruffian on the floor. The sun was rising, illuminating the trees in black as if they were drawn in ink. She was conscious of a ceaseless undercurrent of sound—the guttural Chinese tongue. The woollen-draper looked at his watch. There will be long stretches of idleness, heat, and enervation; and always the odour of drying coconut.
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