"Oh! that was all, was it?" said the turnkey, quietly reseating himself. Nor as I’ve to put up with a French spy in my parlour—’ ‘Peste, how you talk,’ interrupted Melusine impatiently, barely taking in his complaints. ‘You obstinate little devil. He sat up in his chair as though the question had stung him. “How crude you are, Anna!” she exclaimed with a little sigh. Then she looked up the sweep of pine-trees to the towering sunlit cliffs and the high heaven above and then back to his face. The glance, which he threw at the door, was singularly expressive of his character: it was a mixture of alarm, effrontery, and resolution. They don’t catch on to discursive interests, you see, because they are more serious, they are concentrated on the central reality of life, and a little impatient of its—its outer aspects. “Why did you ever let me love you? Why did you ever let me peep through the gates of Paradise? Oh! my God! I don’t begin to feel and realize this yet. Those are all nice things, but it’s not what I want. The flowers upon the mantel-shelf were withered and drooping—she had gathered them. I didn’t see everything last time. Yet, here she was, in the ancient Chinese city, weaving in and out of the narrow streets some scarcely wide enough for two men to walk abreast, streets that boiled and eddied with yellow human beings, who worshipped strange gods, ate strange foods, and diffused strange suffocating smells.
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