“I have the right of the man who loves you,” he declared. A jar of pink roses upon a tiny table seemed to gain an extra delicacy of colour from the sombre curtains behind. It was an awful moment—so awful, that every other feeling except deep interest in the scene seemed suspended. She was informed by Ah Cum that the Chinaman was one of the literati and that he was expounding the deathless philosophy of Confucius, which, summed up, signified that the end of all philosophy is Nothing. By instinct. “They might do you good,” she remarked.
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