But he died when he was a child—long ago—long ago—long ago. “And yet,” he said, “you bid me talk cheerfully, or not at all. “He was a friend of your sister’s, was he not?” “I never heard her mention his name,” she answered. She could see that she was now the exclusive object of the boy’s attention. She saw his eyes glaze over. If a cart were coming, or those labourers in the field had heard, escape was impossible. Suddenly Ah Cum laughed aloud. A film of dust lay upon it; the ink marks were ancient. She laid her hand upon his arm. And then she would find work. Her depression since the “accident” had possessed her, she no longer cared how she looked as her beauty helped her not. He was there concealed, waiting her return. Anna was singing as she used to sing. He went in and leaned, panting, against one wall. "I thought we were going to have some music," she said.
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