How,
then, can Kai Lung have a story that is not also the story of Wang Yu
and Hi Seng, and all others here?"
"Indeed, if the refined and enlightened Wang Yu so decides, it must
assuredly be true," said Kai Lung patiently; "yet (since even trifles
serve to dispel the darker thoughts of existence) would not the
history of so small a matter as an opium pipe chain his intelligent
consideration? such a pipe, for example, as this person beheld only
today exposed for sale, the bowl composed of the finest red clay,
delicately baked and fashioned, the long bamboo stem smoother than the
sacred tooth of the divine Buddha, the spreading support patiently and
cunningly carved with scenes representing the Seven Joys, and the
Tenth Hell of unbelievers."
"Ah!" exclaimed Wang Yu eagerly, "it is indeed as you say, a Mandarin
among masterpieces. That pipe, O most unobserving Kai Lung, is the
work of this retiring and superficial person who is now addressing
you, and, though the fact evidently escaped your all-seeing glance,
the place where it is exposed is none other than his shop of 'The
Fountain of Beauty,' which you have on many occasions endowed with
your honourable presence.
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