She was conscious of a ceaseless undercurrent of sound—the guttural Chinese tongue. He regarded that perennial miracle of pinning with wrathful eyes. She had found it in 1988, the year of the stock market crash. On the right, stood a bulky figure, with a broken rattle hanging out of his great-coat pocket, who held up a lantern to his battered countenance to prove to the spectators that both his orbs of vision were darkened: on the left, a meagre constable had divested himself of his shirt, to bind up with greater convenience a gaping cut in the arm. He tried again.
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