“I wonder—I wonder if we shall ever get like that. I shall give you my life, every moment and thought of my life. They are their mother’s sons. It hung from the centre of a stout pole, each end of which rested upon the calloused shoulder of a coolie; an ordinary Occidental chair with a foot-rest. Plays Beethoven, Rubenstein and all those chaps. ” She eyed him scornfully. Her aunt leaped unhappily to the thought of penitence.
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