"Vat ish it, Mishter Vild?" inquired Mendez. He neither attempted to prevent his nephew's departure, nor to follow him. "I've been wondering, until this morning, if you were real. After some time, the scuffle grew more and more distant, until nothing could be heard. Only she hadn’t. Rows of roasted duck, brilliantly varnished; luscious vegetables, which she had been warned against; baskets of melon seed and water-chestnuts; men working in teak and blackwood; fan makers and jade cutters; eggs preserved in what appeared to her as petrified muck; bird's nests and shark fins. He had been dreaming of Ruth—an old recurrency of that dream he had had in Canton, of Ruth leading him to the top of the mountain. Lucy’s bright tones pursued her. “It’s not. The tears flowed faster.
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