Then she glanced at the cards again, over which her aunt’s many-ringed hand played, and then at the rather weak, rather plump face that surveyed its operations. But if I were dying of thirst, in a desert, I would not accept a cup of water at her hands. He forgot for the moment his own self-pity, the egotism of his own passionate love. Into this hole in the wall and out of it the native stream flowed from sunrise to sunset, when the stream mysteriously ceased. The cold air gave her gooseflesh under her red brocade dress as she slipped outside.
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