Last week. One morning, as he took his stand on the Hong-Kong packet dock to ambush the possible tourist, he witnessed the arrival of a tubby schooner, dirty gray and blotched as though she had run through fire. Sheppard, rushing from the adjoining room. "I have nearly done," replied the stranger. Why didn’t I die? Why does God hate me so? Why does He not want me? I didn’t die because I’m weak, because I am cursed! I hate this poisoned world! But most of all. She spoke with an entirely false note of cheerful offhandedness. She threw hat and coat on the bed and sat down before the fire. .
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