Whenever Ah Cum (whose normal stride was sufficient to keep him at the side of her chair) pointed out something of interest, she had to strain the cords in her neck to focus her glance upon the object. Her finger-nails dug into her flesh. It was horrible. Sometimes they marry well. We can love on a snow cornice, we can love over a pail of whitewash. To-night there seemed to be a new brilliancy in her eyes, a deeper quality in her tone.
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