The flowers upon the mantel-shelf were withered and drooping—she had gathered them. The sunshine broke across each shoulder, one lance striking the yellow face of a Chinaman, queueless and dressed in European clothes, the other lance falling squarely upon the face of the man he had journeyed thirteen thousand miles to find. It was filled with sopping lichens and green benches too slimy to sit upon. Between his lectures—and primarily he was an itinerant lecturer—he manoeuvred in vain to acquire some facts regarding the girl, who she was, whence she had come; but always she countered with: "What is that?" Guileless she might be; simple, never. It was really very jolly to talk to a man in this way—who saw the woman in her and did not treat her as a child.
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