Her moods were many and always striking. “So your father brought you here to live in the States?” John asked. The grate was full of fluttering ashes of burnt paper, and the easy chair near the fire had evidently been used. Into this hole in the wall and out of it the native stream flowed from sunrise to sunset, when the stream mysteriously ceased. “It isn’t only the dance,” she said. Henry Clay, thirteen cents in Hong-Kong and two-bits in that dear old New York. The elusive Jane tapped her on the shoulder after class. She leaned back as he climbed on top of her and kissed her mouth again.
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