He was sipping a glass of cold gin and water, and smoking a short black pipe. “My dear Miss Stanley, when I talked to you the other afternoon of work and politics and such-like things, my mind was all the time resenting it beyond measure. “I wonder,” he said, and went off at a tangent. She gave me an impression of a sort of patched quilt; little bits of patterned stuff coming up again and again. 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.
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