In fiction you make the Chinese secretive, criminal, and terrible—or comic. He made Hong-Kong at dusk: wet, hungry, and a bit groggy for the want of sleep; but he was in no wise discouraged. He turned his back on that temptation. “You are not content then with stealing from me my name. The continuity was frequently broken in upon by diversory suppositions. I would be chased by every curious party on this planet, by vampireseekers, by witch-hunters, by researchers, you name it. It isn’t what I have been but what I am.
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