I suppose it is the mirrors and decorations. “I won’t go home,” she said; “I won’t!” and she evaded the clutch of the fatherly policeman and tried to thrust herself past him in the direction of that big portal. Occasionally the flames would bend, twist and writhe crazily as the punka-boy bestirred himself. It was not for a week or a month. How to hold her, how to keep her at his side; this was the problem with which he struggled. His foot touched the rounded edge of the starling, and glanced off, precipitating him into the water. We went our ways.
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