“Rubbish!” he answered. The lonely widows of robber barons found him irresistible and he was the guest of many a fine table. Her mother brewed potions to scent her hair, sweet balms of anise for her lips and hands, told her wonderful secrets, some decidedly un-Christian. Red apples and snow! How often had these two things entered his thoughts since his wanderings began? Red apples and snow!—and never again to behold them! "I am going out for a little while," she said. So, here he was, on the last lap of middle age, in China, having missed all the thrills in life except one—the war against Death.
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