"Stop a minute, my dear," cried Austin. Into this hole in the wall and out of it the native stream flowed from sunrise to sunset, when the stream mysteriously ceased. That was the wonder of these stories; one lived in them. ‘And then vanished into thin air,’ rejoined Hilary on a sardonic note. “Indeed,” she said, “I would not. It was you, of course, whom he wanted. 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. They don’t catch on to discursive interests, you see, because they are more serious, they are concentrated on the central reality of life, and a little impatient of its—its outer aspects.
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