She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. A woman hard to read, who seemed to delight in keeping locked up behind that fascinating rigidity of feature the intense sensibility which had been revealed to him, her master, only in occasional and rare moments of enthusiasm. Fifteen from forty is twenty-five. One of the coolies held the paper lantern. Because she states her case in a tangle, drags it through swamps of nonsense, it doesn’t alter the fact that she is right.
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