When night fell, he crept into the town of Tottenham. He was so depressed and disheartened that he did not then believe he would ever write again. “You are very kind to think of it,” she said, “but—don’t you think perhaps—that I had better not?” He smiled indulgently. \"Want your pencil back?\" She asked him warily, squinting. He made Hong-Kong at dusk: wet, hungry, and a bit groggy for the want of sleep; but he was in no wise discouraged.
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