I don’t think I’ve got illusions, nor you. "My mother,—my poor mother!" exclaimed Jack. “Your brother has gone?” she asked Sydney, between the courses. "He is," replied a portly personage, arrayed in a gorgeous yellow brocade dressing-gown, lined with cherry-coloured satin, and having a crimson velvet cap, surmounted by a gold tassel, on his head. After all, that was life. Most of you Americans pattern all Chinese upon those who fill a little corner in New York.
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