It hung from the centre of a stout pole, each end of which rested upon the calloused shoulder of a coolie; an ordinary Occidental chair with a foot-rest. Her heart thudded. But he. “A little nervous. And here you are!” Her aunt opened all the fingers of her gloved hand in a rhetorical gesture. It was a perfect windless spring day, a Sunday. Her two sticks were bare and brown, her snugged canvas drab, her brasses dull, her anchor mottled with rust. .
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