His hair is oddly streaked with gray —I might say a dishonourable gray. If only there had not been this single torturing thought—a mere pin-prick, but still curiously persistent. One of the sampans was hailed, and a ropeladder was lowered. He had not been successful as the world counted success; the fat bank-account, the filled waiting room of which he had once dreamed, had never materialized except in the smoke of his evening pipe. He could not make good his hold.
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