She was informed by Ah Cum that the Chinaman was one of the literati and that he was expounding the deathless philosophy of Confucius, which, summed up, signified that the end of all philosophy is Nothing. His ideas about girls and women were of a sentimental and modest quality; they were creatures, he thought, either too bad for a modern vocabulary, and then frequently most undesirably desirable, or too pure and good for life. You seemed, he thought, to have some grievance which you would not explain and which he thought must arise from a misunderstanding. He uttered a deep groan, but said nothing. And now for the fawney— the ring I mean. “Don’t be too sure of that,” she answered enigmatically. His complexion was as blue as a sailor's jacket, and though Mr. ‘So are you. We'll turn the tables upon 'em yet.
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