Framed in one of the square ports of the packet was a face which reminded Ah Cum of a Japanese theatrical mask. There it was—to be borrowed. Yon must be mine to-night. You cannot refuse me this. For a time she looked at no more apartments, and walked through gaunt and ill-cleaned streets, through the sordid under side of life, perplexed and troubled, ashamed of her previous obtuseness. It ran in rivulets down her face, penetrating her hood and the thick quilting of her coat.
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