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It was a quiet corner you see, and a sort of breeze from the gully came in at the window now and then. Besides the mats, there was no other furniture in the room only the coffin, and the old Joss all green and blue and purple with age and polish. Fung-Tching never told us why he called the place "The Gate of a Hundred Sorrows." Most of them are flowery.
A loaded donkey couldn't pass between the walls; and, at one point, just before you reach the Gate, a bulged house-front makes people go along all sideways. It isn't really a gate though. It's a house. Old Fung-Tching had it first five years ago. He was a boot-maker in Calcutta. They say that he murdered his wife there when he was drunk.
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