. . “How do you know—why do you think that my name is Anna?” He smiled in a quietly superior way. To reach the Sha-mien—and particularly the Hotel Victoria—one crossed a narrow canal, always choked with rocking sampans over and about which swarmed yellow men and women and children in varied shades of faded blue cotton. “No doubt about that, I fancy,” Meddoes answered lightly. But I have never seen America. ‘Therefore she cannot be the daughter of Suzanne Valade.
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