To reach the Sha-mien—and particularly the Hotel Victoria—one crossed a narrow canal, always choked with rocking sampans over and about which swarmed yellow men and women and children in varied shades of faded blue cotton. They unloaded Michelle’s sleeping parents who had been propped up in the back seat, necks craned against each other. God help me. There’s no sense in morality, I suppose, unless you are fundamentally immoral.
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