The elder and the three of them walked slowly down the long street, and once again set the whole marketplace off — frightened and suspicious, crowding round and jostling for a look at their faces.

又 — again. One word, and it tells you this has happened in every town they have ever walked into. Tripitaka's instructions in the previous passage were not caution; they were experience. 驚驚恐恐 and 猜猜疑疑 are both ordinary two-character words with each half said twice over. Chinese does this to spread a state out over a crowd and over time — not one person alarmed at one moment, but a whole marketplace being alarmed continuously. English has no clean equivalent; the nearest thing is the way we might say a crowd was all nudging and muttering. 長 here is the long street again, not the elder — and 惹得 takes the light reading, handing off to what the crowd did. Both are cases where the plain dictionary answer is the other word.

The elder told them to keep their mouths shut, saying only: "Don't make a show of yourselves. Don't make a show of yourselves." The three did keep their heads down, and did not dare look up. Round the corner, sure enough, was a broad street running north and south.

He says it twice, back to back. And he had already said it once before, three hundred and fifty-nine characters earlier, when he first got off the horse. Three times in one arrival, to three companions who have been travelling with him for fourteen years. Then 果 twice in twenty-two characters, and it is the same word both times: sure enough, just as expected. The disciples did keep their heads down, sure enough — and the street was where the old man said it would be, sure enough. The sentence gives the same little nod of confirmation to two completely different things, one about character and one about geography. It is a small piece of craft and easy to miss. Everything in this arrival is going exactly as somebody said it would, which is not a sensation this novel hands out often.