‘Coward,’ she threw at him, brandishing the sword. Instinctively she knew—some human recollection she had inherited—that she must not disturb him in this man-agony. She evolved a dim image of herself cooped up in a house under the benevolent shadow of Mr. Tristan dying and Isolde coming to crown his death. Pole coolies came joggling along with bobbing blocks of jade—white jade, splashed and veined with translucent emerald green.
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