A jar of pink roses upon a tiny table seemed to gain an extra delicacy of colour from the sombre curtains behind. Politely Ah Cum stooped and recovered the photograph. But he held the smile until she turned away from the curtain. Then she glanced at the cards again, over which her aunt’s many-ringed hand played, and then at the rather weak, rather plump face that surveyed its operations. She hung about his chair, followed him to the door, touched his sleeve timidly, all the while striving to pronounce the words which refused to rise to her tongue.
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