ToC That night Jack walked to Paddington, and took up his quarters at a small tavern, called the Wheat-sheaf, near the green. “But Julian, we don’t even know each other!” She exclaimed. It gave her joy to see them laughing, even though she was unsure of what she had done wrong. 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. The winter had turned sea and sky to a wet gray. She noted the dank hair on his forehead, the sweat of revolting nature.
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