It’s an emerald. What little happiness I had I was forced to steal. 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. It was a gorgeous May evening, the air redolent with the soapy purple scents of hyacinth and lilac. From her stomacher, to which it was attached by a multitude of glittering steel chains, depended an immense turnip-shaped watch, in a pinchbeck case. Being a Chinaman in blood and instinct, he despised all spinsters; they were parasites. He then unfolded his choice and held it before her face.
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