“Anna! What tragedy has happened, little sister? No lights, no supper, no coffee —and, above all, no Mr. But I mean to have them. To-morrow I'll wire Cook's and the American Express in Hong-Kong to see if there is any mail. Her two sticks were bare and brown, her snugged canvas drab, her brasses dull, her anchor mottled with rust. I didn’t ought to have sent for him. Into this hole in the wall and out of it the native stream flowed from sunrise to sunset, when the stream mysteriously ceased. Dreams of adorable infants danced through her head as she cradled blankets in her arms.
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