"Stow it, Nab!" exclaimed Quilt, angrily; "the kinchen's awake. With a cry of triumph, he rose, the sword hilt grasped in his fingers, the point swishing up towards her. The girl, with a little moan, crossed the room and threw open the window. She longed to own something lasting, anything, but knew her wishes to be stupid. 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. On that night,—that fatal night,—Winifred crushed all the hopes that were rising in my heart.
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