She was conscious of a ceaseless undercurrent of sound—the guttural Chinese tongue. I know how bad it feels. It did not cheer or fortify him with false courage and recklessness; it simply enveloped him in a mist of unreality. Mountains out of molehills and armies out of windmills; and you'll tire yourself in one direction and shatter yourself in the other. She looked down at him and saw that the sunlight was gleaming from his cheeks, and that all over his cheeks was a fine golden down of delicate hairs. Evidently Ah Cum's luck had held good.
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