But at this point he was still subservient, still outwardly humble, in spite of the blackhearted villainy that was even then burgeoning in his breast. Jonathan shook his head. ‘How dull it must have been for you, poor little one. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. The sunshine broke across each shoulder, one lance striking the yellow face of a Chinaman, queueless and dressed in European clothes, the other lance falling squarely upon the face of the man he had journeyed thirteen thousand miles to find.
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