Manning told her he loved beauty, and extorted a similar admission from her; he then expatiated upon his own love of beauty. She turned into the study, sat down at the table and fingered the pencils, curiously stirred. “I’m six hundred and forty-eight, John, but guess how old I look? Fifteen. Get it off your soul. He was in love with her! She tried to grasp all the welter of values in the situation simultaneously, and draw some conclusion from their disorder. This lifeless appearance was heightened by the extreme sharpness of her features—especially the nose and chin,—and by the emaciation of her limbs, which was painfully distinct through her drapery. You certainly had to hand it to these Chinks. ‘Beg your pardon, ma’am, but she’s enough to try the patience of a saint.
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