“Look here, daddy,” she said, in a tone of great reasonableness, “I MUST go to that dance, you know. I've just left your nephew. On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. She might scream until her voice failed; the natives would not come to her aid; they never meddled with the affairs of the whites. The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally. The room was reeling, or was it that she was going to faint? She recovered herself with a supreme effort.
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