“Is that so? Who says?” He demanded, his eyebrows arching as he looked at her with puerile glee. But you shall swing, rascal,—you shall swing. A drunken idea, Ah Cum had called it. His gray eyes were closed, his persimmon-colored lips open and panting. He had pictured her, if indeed she had ever had the courage to do this thing, as sitting alone, convulsed with guilty fear, starting at her own shadow, a slave to constant terror.
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