It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls. “Does he know that I am involved with someone?” “Of course he knows. A film of dust lay upon it; the ink marks were ancient. "What is a sing-song girl?" she asked. “Homely?” “Well, yeah, that’s what he said. She might scream until her voice failed; the natives would not come to her aid; they never meddled with the affairs of the whites.
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