One of his chair coolies had witnessed the transportation of Spurlock by stretcher to the sampan in the canal. In her ears there was a medley of sound: wailing music, rumbling tom-toms and sputtering firecrackers. He laughed. "You play?" asked McClintock, who was sorting the rolls. Instinct had forced her to create something out of rags to satisfy a mysterious craving. But now it’s beads by the cask—like the hold of a West African trader.
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